


We fit together like a tailor-made suit

by Squidbittles



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, HBB, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Russia angst, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 15:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidbittles/pseuds/Squidbittles
Summary: Fresh off a World Cup win, Quidditch star Sidney Crosby is ready to put down roots in the UK. He might be expecting a trip down memory lane when he takes his younger sister shopping for Hogwarts, but he’s not expecting Evgeni Malkin, former breakout Durmstrang Chaser and Team Russia lock (not to mention Sid’s Quidditch crush), working at a robe shop. Malkin’s disappearance had rocked the Quidditch world, and seeing him again leaves Sid feeling some kind of way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am freely taking a rather lot of liberties with the Harry Potter Universe, though the World Cup and Triwizard timelines actually work out shockingly well! I feel like the Wizarding World may have finally started using their version of television, for example. Also, for fictional purposes, I’m vaguely aligning the Quidditch season with hockey season and playing fast and loose with the Magpie’s roster and the likelihood of so many Canadians/Americans playing Quidditch in Britain. 
> 
> I couldn't have done this without the support of some really wonderful folks, including M, KC, AP, J, and my incredible HBB partner MapleMermaid, whose enthusiasm kept me going strong. You guys are the best <3
> 
> [Maple's art can be found here!](http://mermaple.tumblr.com/post/153538939416/art-we-fit-together-like-a-tailor-made-suit)

***

 

Sid’s never been to Diagon Alley when it wasn’t packed to the brim with bustling witches and wizards, but the week before Hogwarts comes back into session is something else entirely. Sid stands still, letting the last traces of dizziness from the Floo trip dissipate, and takes a deep breath. There’s something different about the air in Diagon Alley - unlike any other place he’s been in the wizarding world. Even this early in the morning, the street still fairly teems with people.

 

It leaves him feeling just a little left of center seeing students preparing for class and knowing that he isn’t going back to Hogwarts with them. He hasn’t been back to Diagon Alley since he graduated Hogwarts two years ago, too busy traveling and training with the Canadian National Quidditch Team to do more that eat, sleep, and fly. Though apparently his body hasn’t yet gotten the message that there’s no more school in his future.

 

“Sid. _Sid_.” Taylor’s voice snaps him out of his reverie, and he glances down at his younger sister, who pulls on his hand and gives him an unimpressed look. “Sid, can we _go_ now? I wanna get to Ollivander’s before _anyone else_.”

 

“Yeah, we’re going, squirt.” He tugs the brim of his hat just a little lower and lets Taylor drag him along towards the wand shop. Even if being stuck in crowds makes him antsy, he’s happy to be there with Taylor, especially since there had been a very real chance that she wouldn’t be attending Hogwarts come September.

 

For all the times he’s been in Diagon Alley over the years, he hasn’t been back in Ollivander’s since he first got his wand. He rests his hand against the handle of his wand reflexively, tucked safely into its pocket in his robe as Taylor excitedly pushes the door of the shop open. Sid’s nose twitches a little at the musty scent of the building as dust motes dance in the weak sunlight filtering through the store’s dingy front windows.

 

It is exactly like Sid remembers it, right down to the endless haphazard stacks of wand boxes. Taylor immediately gravitates to the leftmost wall of boxes, peering up, up, up, fascinated. He wonders if she’s trying to find her own wand by sheer force of will - he wouldn’t put it past her. They’re both so distracted that they fail to notice Ollivander himself appearing from the depths of shop.

 

“Hello there.”

 

Sid definitely does _not_ jump, even though Ollivander apparently moves like a _cat_ and not a wizard of some advanced years. He struggles to regain his composure, meeting Ollivander’s eyes and extending his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Ollivander.”

 

“Mister...Crosby,” Ollivander murmurs, grip strong. “Ah yes. Nine years ago - vine with a phoenix feather core...ten inches.”

 

“Uh, yeah. That would be the one.”

 

“And you’re back? Something the matter after all these years? If I’m remembering correctly, your wand was very intent on finding you. Did something happen to it?”

 

“Ah, no. It - we’re fine? I’m here for my sister.” He gestures to Taylor, who’s been drifting from the left wall over towards the right while they talk. “She’s starting at Hogwarts this year.” Sid doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of saying that.

 

“I see.” Ollivander narrows his eyes, looking at Taylor. “Hm.” He follows Taylor’s gaze to the stacks. “Yes, I do think that will do just nicely indeed.” He waves his wand, and a box floats down from near the ceiling. It lands perfectly in Taylor’s outstretched hands, and she stifles a small, excited noise.

 

“Can I?” her voice quavers a little.

 

Ollivander nods. “Just a little swish,” he says.

 

Taylor frowns a little when she picks it up, and when she waves it, Sid isn’t surprised when nothing happens.

 

“Hm,” Ollivander says in that same, even tone. “Not that one then. Nothing to worry about, child. Very few people find their wand on their first try.” He cuts his gaze over to Sid. “Your brother was very unusual in that regard.”

 

Taylor rolls her eyes. “Yeah, he’s unusual in a lot of regards.”

 

Sid feels his cheeks pink just a bit. It isn’t like it’s the first time someone has pointed out that he’s... unusual. Years of excelling at Quidditch, impressive grades - Sid’s spent most of his life either being praised for being better, being special, being _unusual_...or being ostracized because of it. He doesn’t want to think of Taylor viewing him like that.

 

Ollivander cocks his head to the side. “Close, though, I think. Try this one instead.”

 

Another wand drifts down, and Taylor takes it out with more confidence. [This time when she swishes it, the wand responds with a burst of bright red sparks.](http://67.media.tumblr.com/21309bfce4110a4e2fdc32f4458a8795/tumblr_inline_oh2mcrrUgE1rk0oes_1280.jpg)

 

“SID!” she exclaims, bouncing over to him, “Look!”

 

“Yeah, squirt, I see. Good job, there.” He ruffles her hair, pride blooming in his chest.

 

Ollivander smiles. “Just as I suspected. Ten and a half inches. Cedar with a unicorn hair core. Treat this wand right, young lady, and you will never have a truer companion.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Ollivander!”

 

Sid pays for the wand and, with a smile and a thank you, they leave. He pulls out the parchment he’d received with Taylor’s name on it, detailing all that she’d need to start her wizarding education. It had seemed a mile long when he first looked at it - it definitely doesn’t look any shorter now. Sid doesn’t remember his own supply list being this long.

 

“Alright, Tay. Wand down...we’ve still got books, writing supplies, cauldrons, potions, and robes to go - what’s next?”

 

“Brooms?” she asks, eyes as wide and imploring as she can make them.

 

“Hm. Brooms, brooms...I don’t see anything on the list about brooms,” he mutters, squinting and peering at the list. The parchment conveniently hides his grin. “Did you mean ‘books’? There’s lots of books on here.”

 

“Siiiiid,” she whines.

 

“How about we get the stuff we have to get first, and then maybe we’ll look at brooms?” If she asks for it, there’s precisely no chance that he’ll refuse to take his sister to look at brooms, and maybe Quidditch stuff too.

 

Taylor had declared sometime last year her intent to be a keeper. She’s not typically prone to a lot of flights of fancy - so if she says she wants to take up Quidditch, he believes her. But that had also been in the midst of all the World Cup excitement, and Sid isn’t going to force her to pick up Quidditch, no matter how much he hopes that she’ll love it as much as he does.

 

Taylor rolls her eyes again. “ _Fine_. If we have to.”

 

“Well, we have to get you all this sh--stuff. And we _don’t_ have to get you a broom, so pick your poison, kiddo.” He holds out the list so she could see, and tries not to laugh as she stomps over.

 

“Hhhh,” she sighs, the picture of suffering. “Books first, _I guess_.”

 

***

 

They manage to make it through Flourish and Blotts, Potage’s, and Amanuensis Quills before Taylor starts making noises about popping in for a quick visit to Quality Quidditch Supplies again. Sid wavers - they did get most of their shopping taken care of.

 

He glances at the clock looming over the alley. Diagon Alley only gets more crowded as the day wears on; they’ve managed this long without Sid getting recognized, but chances of that continuing aren’t likely. Sid doesn’t think he’s particularly exciting, but Quidditch is popular, especially in Wizarding Britain - and just after a World Cup? Sid’s pretty sure he could be a goalpost and someone would recognize him. Once they hit Quality Quidditch Supplies, any anonymity he might have will be blown - not to mention any hope of getting Taylor to focus on the rest of her school shopping.

 

“One more stop,” he insists. Taylor still needs a new set of robes according to the list, and Madam Malkin’s is right there. “Come on, Taylor. Robes and _then_ Quidditch, I promise.”

 

The look she sends him is dubious at best. “ _Clothes_?”

 

“You know it’s the rules.”

 

“But the ones I have are fine!”

 

Sid privately thinks that the state of Taylor’s robes might stretch the definition of “fine” past the point of believability, but she _is_ an eleven year old who enjoys spending most of her time outside. And it’s not like he has any room to judge. He can see at least two holes in his own robes, and he’s supposed to be the adult here.

 

“Robes, kiddo. For both of us, probably.”

 

“Uuuugh.” She drags her feet, but follows him into the shop. “You got old and _boring_ , Sid.”

 

He nudges her shoulder. “Please, I’ve always been boring.”

 

***

 

Madame Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions has been a beloved institution in Diagon Alley since long before the Crosbys came over from Canada. Sid vividly recalls going into the shop with his mom to pick out his own first set of school robes; aside from the new fashions, it’s just like Sid remembers it. Like Taylor, he’s never been particularly interested in clothes. Maybe because of that, the trips he and Trina took to Madame Malkin’s throughout the years stood out in his mind - the fancier sets of robes his mom would glance at longingly before gently shuffling him to the back of the store and the cheaper, premade robes that Sid grew out of each summer, the smell of the different fabrics, the rainbow of colors, the bright smile of Madame Malkin herself.

 

“Welcome to Madame Malkin’s,” a thickly accented voice greets them as they walk in. Sid glances up...and up, and is treated to a brilliant smile, the owner of which is definitely _not_ Madame Malkin. He says as much out loud, barely registering his words because his brain is finally catching up to his eyes.

 

“Madame Malkin my...aunt,” he says cheerfully, like that’s a comment he gets a lot. He holds his hand out, and meets Sid’s eyes for the first time. They both freeze.

 

“Evgeni Malkin,” Sid breathes. It’s been four years since he’s seen Malkin in person, but that’s not a face Sid could ever forget. He blames his slowness on the fact that, of all the places he thought he might one day run into Malkin again, a robe shop in Diagon Alley was nearly dead last on the list - so unlikely his brain had refused to believe it. Belatedly, he reaches out and shakes Malkin’s hand. It’s a little larger than he remembers, but it’s still achingly familiar, right down to the warmth and the callouses and the way it neatly envelopes his own hand.

 

“Sidney Crosby,” Malkin croaks, swallowing heavily.

 

“Sid,” he corrects. Sid wonders if he’s still allowed to call Evgeni “Geno,” or if that allowance of familiarity has passed along with the years since the Triwizard Tournament.

 

Sid’s seen the photographs since Evgeni graduated, sought them out as he finished his own schooling and studied them in his excitement as intensely as he studied for his N.E.W.T.s. Even after he’d been recruited for Team Canada, he continued to pour over the scouting reports on Team Russia. If he had paid a little more attention to Malkin’s footage, well. His flying had always been phenomenal and had just gotten better. Watching him score had left Sid with a dry mouth and a tightness in his chest.

 

When he’d read about Malkin’s disappearance in the middle of Team Russia’s qualifying cycle, it’d felt like someone had cast a particularly nasty jinx on him. For days Sid felt like he couldn’t breathe properly. It seemed impossible that the boy he’d grown so close to could have just vanished from the face of the Earth. Except he isn’t gone at all, apparently.

 

Malkin’s grin is gone, and he looks like he’s just seen a thestral. Sid’s grip tightens reflexively and he has to clear his throat. “Please,” he adds.

 

“Team Canada,” Evgeni rumbles after a second. “Congratulations.”

 

Sid’s disappointment bubbles in his throat at Ge - Malkin’s stiffness. He bites his tongue and smiles politely up at the other man. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” If Malkin either doesn’t want to acknowledge the hippogriff in the room, then Sid can respect that decision.

 

“Siiiid, _Quidditch_.”

 

He jumps guiltily at the sound of Taylor’s voice from the vicinity of his shoulder. “Sorry, Tay. I promise, right after we get you set for school.”

 

Malkin takes the opportunity to extract his hand from Sidney’s and he turns to Taylor. “Ah, new to Hogwarts, yes?” he asks, crouching until they’re eye-level. He holds his hand out, and Taylor shakes it solemnly. “Mr. Malkin,” he says. “Is nice to meet.”

 

“Taylor Crosby,” she states. “It’s nice to meet you, too - where are the uniform robes?”

 

Sid resists the urge to hide his face in his hands at her abruptness.. “ _Taylor_.” Malkin shoots him an amused look, earlier stiffness gone in the face of Sid’s kid sister, and Sid feels his face warm.

 

“What? I was being polite!”

 

“Barely.”

 

Evgeni doesn’t bother to stifle his chuckle. “She know what she want.”

 

“Yeah, the Quidditch store,” Sid mutters.

 

“Robes for students are back here,” Malkin tells Taylor, leading them towards the racks. “We have many different styles for choose.”

 

Taylor eyeballs the racks, and Sid sympathizes with the overwhelmed look on her face. He almost steps in, but before he can, she screws up her face and pushes through it. “D’ya have anything that’s just - robes?”

 

Malkin’s mouth twitches a little. “Plain black robes? Tough, strong?”

 

Taylor nods. “I don’t wanna have to come back.” Sid must make some kind of noise under his breath because she tacks on a hasty, “No offense.”

 

“No offense,” he agrees. “We get tough robes for tough lady.” He pushes one sleeve up and flexes his arm. “Next time you come back, you have muscles like mine, okay? I’ll tailor robes to fit just for you.”

 

Taylor narrows her eyes, trying to determine if she’s being made fun of, but Evgeni’s expression never wavers. Finally, she nods. “Deal.”

 

“Three sets for Hogwarts, _da_?” he checks, already pulling robes down.

 

“Ah, yeah,” Sid stutters, eyes darting away from Evgeni’s bared flesh. “You have hats, too?”

 

“Of _course_ , Mister - Sid,” he corrects quickly. Taylor giggles. “I remember you go to Hogwarts. You think Madame Malkin’s stop selling hats just because I’m come help my _tetya_?” He pulls a comically insulted face, and Taylor’s giggles get a little louder.

 

“Uh,” he blurts out. Malkin blinks, lips curling. “No?” His brain is stuck on Malkin’s words.

 

“No, we not stop selling hat or no, you not go to Hogwarts? Last one is lie, I think.”

 

“You know I did,” Sid says. He meets Evgeni’s gaze and for a moment he can pretend that they’re 16 and 17 again and trying to sneak in an impromptu Quidditch game away from the watchful Beauxbatons’ teachers.

 

Malkin waves his wand gracefully, eyes still on Sid’s, and a student’s hat dances a merry jig over from one of the shelves lining the shop before landing with a satisfied _plop_ on Sid’s head. It’s nowhere near the right size, but Sid can see his reflection in the mirror and the hat perches at a jaunty angle on his head. He smiles tentatively at Evgeni as Taylor guffaws, long and loudly. Sid plucks the hat off his head and drops it onto hers. He resists the urge to stick his tongue out at her.

 

“Well played,” he says, rolling his eyes.  

 

“Of course,” Evgeni smirks, and Sid feels a little of the tension in the air dissipate. To Taylor, Evgeni adds, “You need anything else?”

 

She mulls it over for a long moment, then chirps, “Nope! Uh, thank you!”

 

Sid squints at her, lips thinning in an attempt to keep a straight face. “You sure about that, squirt? Don’t you need some dress robes?” Taylor’s eyes widen. “What about new shoes - I remember there being a big rack of them over - “

 

“Sid!“

 

“Your shoes do look old,” Evgeni chimes in, catching Sid’s eye. Taylor shoots Sid a look, panic plain on her face.

 

“Sid, you _promised_! Shoes aren’t on the list!”

 

“Are you _sure_? I could have sworn - ”

 

“Oh my god, where’s the parchment, I’ll prove it,“ she narrows her eyes. “Weren’t you gonna get some robes, too? How come I’m the one being tortured here?”

 

He gives up trying to keep a straight face and laughs. “Okay, okay. You’re off the hook. No shoes. We can go to Quality Quidditch Supplies.” Taylor practically deflates in relief. “You want me to meet you over there?”

 

“Are you sure? Not gonna change your mind?” she asks, already inching towards the door.

 

“Are you going to get lost or run off?”

 

“Uh, _no_? It’s Quidditch. Where would else would I go?” She’s out the door before he can come up with any objections, and Sid has a brief moment of panic as she disappears, doorbell chiming merrily. He peers out the window long enough to watch her slip into Quality Quidditch. When he turns back to Evgeni, the other man smiles at him knowingly.

 

“Is hard to let go, yes?”

 

“I know she’s old enough to go to Hogwarts, but...she’s my little sister. I can’t help it.” Sid shrugs. He’s proud of her, even if he is a little nervous.

 

“You a good older brother,” Malkin says, wrapping up Taylor’s new robes. “I have older brother and he _try_ to lose me when we go to school.”

 

“That’s terrible,” Sid says, trying to hide his smile. He hadn’t known Malkin _had_ an older brother, though he’s not sure when he would have learned that information in between the excitement of the Triwizard Tournament and trying to do homework in two different languages and illicit kisses in hidden alcoves.

 

“Is older brother,” he replies, with a shrug of his own. He hands Sid the wrapped robes. “I think maybe _you_ don’t switch your sister’s broom with baby tree and say that's how all the greatest Russians learn Quidditch.”

 

Sid bites his lip, shrinking down Taylor’s robes with a flick of his wand. “No,” Sid says after a beat. “I definitely didn’t do that. I might have thought about it once or twice, though.”

 

“Definitely older brother.” Evgeni smiles a little tentatively, and Sid’s so focused on that smile that he almost doesn’t hear Evgeni add quietly, “You need robes, too? Or Miss Taylor just say to try and escape?”

 

“What? I - _no_.” He swallows. “It wasn’t just a distraction. It’s probably time for some new ones.” Clothes had been pretty far down the list of things on Sid’s mind over the past year. “I, uh. I don’t think I’ve gotten a new pair since I graduated.”

 

Malkin leans forward on the countertop. “You still fit?” He sounds skeptical and Sid feels his face heat.

 

“I’ve pretty much just been living in the stuff sponsors have been sending me,” he admits. Evgeni’s smile twists briefly, but the expression’s gone so quickly, Sid’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it.

 

“I’m think we can do. New job with the Magpies, yes? You want to impress.”

 

Sid’s breath catches. He wants to ask the other man so many things - _why_ he knows where Sid signed, if he remembers that year in Beauxbatons the same way that Sid does - but he can’t shake the look on Malkin’s face earlier.

 

Malkin stares at him, eyebrows raised, and Sid realizes that he’s just been staring into space. He clears his throat and tries to ignore the embarrassment circulating through his chest. “Ah, yeah. I mean. They already gave me the job, but we’re supposed to show up in dress robes for gamedays, and, well.” Sid shrugs.

 

“You like robes like sister? Or maybe something fancy.”

 

“I’m a little old for school robes, but if you mean functional, then yeah.” He freely admits to being somewhat staid in his preferences, especially in comparison to some of his teammates. He gets too much chirping about his style from the French-Canadian contingent to have any illusions about his personal fashion sense.

 

“Hm. Crosbys are boring, I see.” Malkin gestures and leads Sid to the section of the store clearly geared towards men’s robes. Sid brushes his hand against a myriad of fabrics and bright colors hanging from the racks. He doesn’t remember his father ever wearing anything quite so outlandish as some of these - Malkin probably has a point. Sid immediately gravitates towards a set with a nice, loose cut and thick fabric. Evgeni makes a noise that sounds a lot like dismay. “What about these?” he asks, nudging Sid away from his first selection and towards something in a pale blue and a much slimmer cut.

 

They aren’t hideous by any stretch of the imagination, but Sid can’t quite see himself showing up for his first game in them. He’s not even sure they’ll fit over his...assets.

 

“Um.” He pulls out a set almost identical to the ones he’d initially been looking at, just in a very daring navy blue. “What about these?” Sid’s far from being an expert on either fashion _or_ running a robe shop, but he feels pretty certain that shopkeepers probably aren’t supposed to roll their eyes at customers, even if they do know them.

 

“ _Most_ boring Crosby. I’m suppose is not a bad color.” He flicks his wand and the robes float out of Sid’s hand and hang suspended in the air next to Sid’s face. “They compliment your skin okay. Little too big, maybe.”

 

“You sure they’ll work, though?”

 

Malkin gives him an unimpressed look. “They work. _Boring_ , but they work for looking professional. I’m get you smaller pair, maybe? Or can tailor if you like big.”

 

Sid hopes the warmth he feels on his face is due to the temperature of the shop and not his tendency to blush. He’s pretty sure that he doesn’t need to explain to Malkin why he prefers his robes a little on the big side - Malkin has had first hand experience as to the _why_ , even if he doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge it. Sid’s proud of his body - he works hard on it and it’s great for Quidditch, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s still awkward to have the _my ass is huge_ conversation, though. “Well, I _am_ a pretty boring guy,” Sid says dryly, dodging the question entirely. “I’ll take two sets, if you have them.”

 

Malkin holds his arm out, and the first set drapes over his forearm unbidden while a second set lifts off the rack to join them. The look he gives Sid makes it clear that he’s not forgetting the conversation, but he is dropping it for now. Sid will take it. He follows Malkin back to the counter and starts counting out coins.

 

“Five galleons, six sickles for tent robes,” he says, sliding the wrapped robes over to Sid.

 

Boring they may be, but they’re good quality and that - “Is that...that doesn’t seem right.”

 

Malkin shrugs, smirking. “Maybe I give discount for Quidditch stars.”  

 

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “What about for old friends?” The difference in Evgeni’s face is immediate, smile vanishing and shoulders gone stiff with tension. It’s such a dramatic shift that, for a moment, Sid’s afraid he completely misjudged the situation and that he might get kicked out and told never to return.

 

“Five galleons, six sickles,” Malkin repeats. His smile is back, but it’s a brittle thing. Sid hands over the money, throat tight. He should have kept his stupid mouth shut.

 

“I - sorry, that was out of line. Thanks a lot for your help today,” he adds quietly, trying with all his might to will Malkin into looking at him again - as if he can convince Malkin of his regret with just the intensity of his gaze.

 

Malkin shifts, eyes darting anywhere but at Sid. “Welcome,” he mutters. Sid _knows_ he’s being weird, that he ought to just leave well enough alone, but he wants - _needs_ \- Malkin to know that he didn’t mean to make things awkward. Eventually, Malkin meets his eyes, probably by accident more than anything else. “It was good to see you again.”

 

“Yeah, you too. _Really_.” He starts towards the door, but stops suddenly. “Um, I just -” Evgeni crosses his arms. Sid racks his brain for a reason to come back. “Were you serious about tailoring robes? That’s a thing you do here?”

 

Evgeni’s mouth drops open, clearly startled enough to forget his previous reticience, and Sid doesn’t think he’s imagining the quick up-down Evgeni gives him. Sid is definitely blushing, dammit. “ _Da_. Ah, yes. I can do if you want,” Evgeni replies. He still looks a little spooked, but Sid feels like if he _does_ come back, he might at least have a chance at..at _something_.

 

“That - that’s good. Thank you. I’ll be in touch?” He waits just long enough for Malkin to nod, and then escapes out the door. His pulse races as he goes to find Taylor, and he tries not to examine _why_ too closely.

 

***

 

By September 1st, he’s managed to mostly move into his new apartment. Taylor helps him pick it out, along with a strong recommendation from the Magpies’ owner Mario. Sid makes sure the location’s good and that it has stuff like a kitchen and a fireplace he can have connected to the Floo - but he also makes an effort to listen when she offers up an opinion on the bedrooms or how the kitchen is laid out, since it’ll effectively be her home away from Hogwarts during school breaks.

 

Ultimately, her biggest concern seems to be whether or not Sid will let her paint the room that’ll be hers. Mrs. Feeney had just waved her hand, and told them to just make sure they put it all back to rights before they moved out. Sid’s pretty sure that as a squib in a building that rents mostly to wizards, she’s seen much worse and weirder.

 

They try to get the flat set up before she leaves for school, but admittedly, they’re both kind of bad at it. Taylor's version of appropriate decorating includes retro posters of the Weird Sisters and the Holyhead Harpies tacked up on every available wall. Sid isn't confident that his decorating sense is much better; he attempts to make sure most of them go in the room she’d painted lime green, but inevitably a few made their way onto the living room walls.

 

He gets the Wireless and WPA set-up and the crucial pieces of furniture in the living room and bedrooms, but barring Taylor’s posters and the couple of pictures their parents send them, the walls are pretty bare. He hangs his new robes in his closet, along with his Magpies kits and his increasingly shabby former school robes and some Muggle-style suits, and he tries not to dwell on Evgeni Malkin working in his aunt’s robe shop. Sid very carefully doesn’t think about the set of his shoulders or why he’s quit Quidditch in favor of robe-selling and _apparently_ tailoring. He definitely doesn’t lose sleep reminiscing about frantic teenaged groping and the way Evgeni Malkin’s mouth felt.

 

Despite progress elsewhere, the kitchen’s basically a trainwreck, and Sid feels like a little bit of a failure for being relieved that once Taylor’s on the train, he'll only have to be responsible for feeding himself. Especially when Taylor gives him an unimpressed look after their third night in a row of pasta and soggy, boiled veggies.

 

The truth of the matter is that Sid has never lived alone before - Team Canada recruited him straight out of Hogwarts for their World Cup run, and he'd spent the intervening two years living with his teammates and traveling to qualifiers across the world. The team always made sure they were fed and mostly didn't blow anything or each other up - despite the best efforts of the French-Canadians.

 

He feels woefully underprepared to live by himself, much less to take care of his baby sister when she isn't at school - a fact he’s reminded of when he finally sees her off onto the train, a squirming Beatrice tucked under one arm and her satchel thrown over her shoulder.

 

“Can I get some money for the snack cart?” Taylor thrusts out the hand that wasn't corralling her menace of a cat and Sid winces, rifling through his pockets. He hadn't even thought of that. He digs out some knuts and hands them over. “Thanks, Sid!” She shoves them into her robes and practically launches herself at him. “Love you, miss you, bye!”

 

He gets in one good hug before she scampers away and onto the train. Next to him, a mother clucks her tongue. “They grow up so fast, don't they?” He nods, unsure of how to begin to put into words what he’s feeling, and watches as the Hogwarts Express slowly chugs its way out of the station. He’s a little glad his parents are back in Canada for this. If he feels teary, he can’t imagine his mother’s reaction.

 

Despite his misgivings, it’s easy to take heart from Taylor, who so readily puts her faith in him. At the very least, Sid is no stranger to hard work, and while he might not be able to train himself to be better at living on his own immediately, he thinks he can at least start with learning to cook.

 

His next practice isn't until tomorrow, so rather than go home to his nearly empty apartment, he apparates to Diagon Alley, intent on going to Flourish and Blotts. There’s no time like the present, after all, and if he doesn't go now, Sid’s not sure he ever will.

 

It takes him nearly an hour and he has to brave the attentions of the older lady working at the register to find a cookbook that’s both healthy enough to keep up with his in-season diet and that doesn't seem impossibly difficult for someone of his limited skill set. By the time he finishes, it is nearly noon, and he spends a good five minutes hanging around the street corner and contemplating heading over to Madame Fortesque’s. On the one hand, ice cream isn't lunch _or_ in his diet plan. On the other, he did just bought a very adult responsible cookbook.

 

“You look lost,” says a deep voice from behind him, and Sidney makes a noise that, if asked about later, he will deny ever having made. He whips around, only to come face to shoulder with none other than Evgeni Malkin, who looks far too amused for Sidney’s taste.

 

“It’s rude to sneak up on someone,” he huffs, trying to ignore the racing of his heart.

 

Evgeni’s smile doesn't dampen in the slightest, and Sid wonders if this is some kind of payback for making him uncomfortable before. “Is also rude to stand in the middle of the sidewalk staring at-” he glances in the direction Sidney had been looking at. “- Ice cream shop?”

 

“I _wasn't_ ,” Sid protests faintly.

 

“Sure seem like it. You eat lunch so early that it's time for dessert now?”

 

Sidney does not intend to answer that because it is _definitely_ none of Malkin’s business. However, judging from the knowing expression on his face, Sid doesn't have to say anything.

 

“We go to lunch,” Evgeni offers into the silence. “Real lunch, then maybe ice cream? I remember you like dessert.”

 

“What?” Sid blinks. Of all the things he might have expected Malkin to say, that wasn't one of them.

 

“We go eat,” he says, a little slower. “Something better for you than ice cream. Keep Magpies’ best seeker strong.”

 

He probably ought to say no; if there’s one thing that Sid’s learned it’s that he definitely isn’t as over his schoolboy crush on Malkin. He _would_ say no, except instead when he opens his mouth, he asks, “Do you like the Magpies, then?”

 

“I pay attention since you sign,” Malkin admits with a smile.

 

Sid hates how easily that makes him blush, unsure of how to respond to such an earnest, unexpected compliment. “I, uh. Thanks,” he mumbles.

 

Evgeni shrugs a shoulder like it’s nothing. “You ever go to Mama Boursin’s?”

 

“Uh, no I don't think so.”

 

“So lunch,” he says like it’s a foregone conclusion.

 

Sid bites his lip, and gives in. “Yeah, all right.” It’s not like he’s ever been good at telling Evgeni no. Why start now?

 

Evgeni looks surprised, like he hadn’t actually expected Sid to agree, but it quickly morphs into smug pleasure. “It’s best. Come, come.”

 

Mama Boursin’s turns out to be a tiny Italian eatery tucked into an out of the way nook of Diagon Alley. Sid’s never heard of it before, much less seen it, and it’s just as small and cozy on the inside as it looks on the outside. An older woman - Mama Boursin, Sid assumes - greets Malkin with congenial familiarity and seats them at a table; Sid’s left with the impression that he ought to be impressed at their seating location.

 

[There’s a tablecloth and a floating candle, plus a wine list for lunch, and a little hysterically, SId wonders if this is supposed to be a date.](http://67.media.tumblr.com/88ee820d40395193c1591d2aad02a29c/tumblr_inline_oh2mgaUNlB1rk0oes_1280.jpg) He thought dates were supposed to be a little more planned, but it isn’t as though he has a wealth of experience with going on dates. Or planning them, for that matter.

 

“Sid, you want water, butterbeer? Something else?” Malkin’s voice knocks him back into the present. It wouldn't be the first time that Sid read too much into another guy’s actions. Malkin barely acknowledges they know each other - for all Sid knows, this could be another one of those “it’s definitely not gay if you’re still in school” things. It wouldn’t be the first time that’d happened to him. He takes a deep breath and tries to calm down because he is definitely being ridiculous.

 

“Um, just water, please.” Sid’s getting ahead of himself and he needs to not, so he focuses on Evgeni, who looks at him curiously. It’s better to just be present in the moment, Sid thinks. He smiles at Evgeni reassuringly. “Just lost in thought, sorry.”

 

“Is ok.”

 

They’re quiet for a long moment, Sid staring thoughtfully at the menu. A few minutes in, Mama Boursin floats over a bread basket filled with warm rolls. Sid’s mouth waters. He wants to say something, but his mind is a complete blank. All he can think about is Quidditch, and he finds himself afraid to broach the topic lest he hit another sore spot.

 

Besides, he thinks, cautiously grabbing a roll - Malkin’s the one who invited _him_ to lunch. He can do the talking.

 

Malkin orders some kind of meatball monstrosity that Sid had looked at on the menu - the picture looked really appealing, and he could almost _smell_ them. He ends up going with the carbonara instead - he has yet to be able to turn down a good carbonara.

 

“You know, I’m not expect Sidney Crosby walk into my _tetya_ ’s shop.”

 

Sid starts to respond - stops, thinks for a moment. “I wasn’t really expecting to see you there, either,” he says.

 

Sid sees the stiffness return to Evgeni’s shoulders again, but he takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax. “I’m not expect _anyone_ who come in to recognize me,” he says finally. “You surprised me, and I’m not react well.”

 

“That - it’s ok. I was rude; I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Sid shoves another roll into his mouth.

 

Evgeni grins, a small thing just for Sid. “Yes, very rude for a Canadian boy. How do you play for Team Canada, but end up in UK?”

 

Good-natured teasing is familiar ground for the both of them, and Sid latches onto the out. “Ah, well. My dad’s company called him back to Canada about a month ago and Taylor had already gotten her letter to Hogwarts.”

 

“You’re stay for sister? You’re a _much_ better brother,” Malkin interrupts, tongue poking out.

 

Sid chuckles. “I mean, it wasn’t _just_ for Taylor, but she really wanted to be able to go to Hogwarts and with my parents moving back to Canada - I grew up here, so it’s like my second home and she wanted that, too.”

 

“So you sign with the Magpies?”

 

“I, uh. I had a lot of offers from different teams.” It’s not bragging if he’s just stating the facts. “I played with a bunch of the guys on the Magpies for Team Canada, so I was pretty familiar with them. And besides, for a country as big as Canada, there aren’t a lot of options for playing pro.”

 

Their food arrives, and they’re both too distracted by their lunches to continue that line of conversation. Malkin’s looks just as good as the picture had promised, but Sid’s pretty enamored of his carbonara so he doesn’t mind.

 

“You want to try?” Evgeni asks after a moment and several disappeared meatballs.

 

Sid’s not expecting the offer, and before he can respond, Evgeni has deposited a meatball gently on the edge of his plate. He blinks, startled, but murmurs a quick thanks before cutting into it. It really is just as good as it looks and smells, and Sid must make a noise of pleasure because Evgeni grins at him.

 

“Meatballs my favorite dish here. It’s hard to find food from home, but Mama Boursin meatballs are almost as good.”  

 

“You haven’t found anything in London?” Sid’s a little surprised - he hasn’t explored a lot of Muggle London yet, but one of the first things he’d noticed were the abundance of restaurants and little food markets that pepper the streets. He has a few he latched onto almost immediately, and he thinks at least one has a little Russian stall.

 

“I’m still explore the city, you know? There’s so much and is hard to get around when they don’t let you fly.”

 

Sid chuckles. “It’s not too bad once you get the hang of the trains, I promise.”

 

Malkin gives him a considering look. “Maybe you teach me?”

 

For all his confidence, Muggle transportation is still a little bit of a work in progress for him, too. Thanks to his Mom’s Muggle heritage, it’s not that he has issues figuring out _how_ to use the Tube so much as it’s his abysmal sense of direction. Still, he nods. “Yeah, that’d be fun.” He even finds that he means it, even if he may need to find some maps to study.

 

The rest of their meal is relatively quiet, but it’s easy for Sid to feel comfortable with Malkin, easy to fall back on the familiarity they’d developed over a year of being tossed together during the Triwizard Tournament. It’s easy for him to answer Evgeni’s questions about Taylor, or his new apartment, or what he’s seen in London so far. It’s harder not to bring up any of the number of things he remembers from his fifth year. It’s clear Evgeni’s offering the metaphorical olive branch though, and Sid can work with that. He’d rather have a fresh start than nothing.

 

“You asked about tailoring before, yes?” Evgeni asks as he mops up the last of the sauce on his plate. Sid freezes, not expecting the question, and he feels his face pinken. Hopefully the restaurant’s too dim for it to be very noticeable.

 

“I, uh. Yeah.” Sid had said it on impulse initially, but it’s easy to recall the amount of teasing he’s gotten over the last few years from Tanger and Flower about his lack of fashion sense. He can’t quite read the expression on Malkin’s face, but it’s easy to make up his mind. “I thought maybe getting something tailored might be nice? I’ve always just kind of bought stuff off the rack before.”

 

“It’s good to treat yourself to something nice. Maybe celebrate contract. You say before, but you also didn’t come back, so I think maybe it was joke.” Malkin fiddles with the last bits of his roll and doesn’t meet Sid’s eyes and, _oh_ , Sid thinks. He licks his lips.

 

“No! I - I wouldn’t joke about that. I just - it’s been a crazy few weeks trying to move in and practices for the season and getting Taylor ready for school.” It’s been overwhelming, he doesn’t say.

 

“It’s a lot, starting on your own,” Evgeni agrees, eyes sympathetic. “You come by whenever you’re ready; I tailor.”

 

“Are you sure that won’t be an imposition?”

 

Malkin sucks in a shallow breath. “For old friend, no problem,” he says finally. Sid feels his pulse quicken. Then Malkin’s lips turn up in a smirk that makes his mouth go a little dry. “Maybe I stay open late for Sidney Crosby? You let me know; I take care.”

 

“I, uh. Thanks,” he says, and his voice definitely in no way cracks.

 

“Maybe you tell friends how good Malkin’s Robes are,” Evgeni continues, tongue poking out again, and right now, the only friends Sidney has are teammates. Whatever else happens, he is _positive_ he won’t be telling his teammates anything about any kind of Malkins, especially if his track record of blushing continues.

 

“Yeah, maybe I will.” He clears his throat because two can play at that game. Sid thinks they might be flirting, and he has no idea how they got here, but he can’t seem to stop his mouth. “ _If_ I think you do a good enough job.”

 

Malkin makes an insulted noise, but he’s still smiling when Mama Boursin brings them the bill. He snatches it before Sid can even lay eyes on it, and when Sid starts to protest, he straight up hushes Sid.

 

“Let me get,” he insists.

 

“You already gave me a discount on the robes though, c’mon.“

 

“Nope. Is mine. I’m say sorry for being - “ Evgeni makes a complicated gesture that Sid takes to mean _weird_.

 

“You don’t have to apologize - I told you, I was rude.”

 

“Well I’m be rude, too. I pay, you come for tailoring and maybe tell friends about best robes, and we’re even.” His tone of voice is steely, and he levitates the check and payment over to Mama Boursin before Sid can protest further.

 

He almost gets his wand out to interfere, but Evgeni glares at him, and Sid gives in. “Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m getting the next one.”

 

“It’s a date,” Evgeni says, lips curling in a pleased smile.

 

***

 

They don’t get ice cream - Malkin had to run back to the shop, and Sid was full enough from his carbonara that exercising dessert restraint wasn’t too difficult. Sid heads home, feeling light and a little giddy. He plans on starting his cooking lessons that night, but when he goes to unshrink his brand-new cookbook, his pockets are completely empty. He checks every pocket twice, going so far as to strip and shake out his clothes. Still nothing. It’s not the end of the world - he can go back and pick up another copy, but not until at least tomorrow afternoon. He’s disappointed, too. He had been psyching himself up about this all day, and had actually been looking forward to trying a new (simple) recipe.

 

“Looks like it’s time for grilled cheese and tomato soup,” he tells Sam, who hoots but otherwise seems completely disinterested in his plight.

 

He’s halfway through his sandwich - cut into triangles like his mom used to do and like Taylor always prefers - when he hears a tapping against the French doors leading to his miniscule balcony. Sid startles and drops the remainder of his sandwich straight into his tomato soup.

 

“Shit, dammit,” he hisses, brushing at a stain on his t-shirt. The tapping is getting more insistent, and he flings open one of the doors to find an ancient-looking owl with a parcel, a note, and a very unimpressed look. “Oh, geeze. I’m sorry, buddy,” Sid says. “I wasn’t expecting mail; come on in.”

 

The owl glides in and lands on the larger of the two branches that make up Sam’s perch. Sam had been a gift from his folks for his graduation from Hogwarts - they’d insisted since he’d be away and traveling for the World Cup that he at _least_ have an owl with him. She scoots over for the other owl, but doesn’t look happy about it, fluffing up her feathers in an attempt to look larger. Sid bites back a chuckle. She isn’t very successful. Back then, Sid hadn’t been expecting to find Sam in London - she wasn’t one of the breeds native to the UK at all, but she’d immediately hopped into the palm of his hand when he’d held it out and that was that.

 

[Two years later, and she isn’t much bigger than she was as a little owlet](http://67.media.tumblr.com/168c8888b88964574205ecbd4065d3da/tumblr_inline_oh2maishzZ1rk0oes_1280.jpg), but she’s fierce and fat and likes to cuddle up on his shoulder, and Sid’s grateful that with Taylor at school, he’s got _someone_ waiting for him at home. He doesn’t generally mind being by himself, but it does get lonely now and again.

 

“Hey now,” he murmurs. “No need to be jealous, Sammy.”

 

She fluffs up a little more and glares between him and the post-owl. Sid reaches out and scritches gently at the feathers just behind her head; it’s enough to settle her down enough that he can get the package and note from the other owl, who’s been waiting relatively patiently.

 

“Thank you,” he says, depositing a knut in the pouch attached to the owl’s harness. “Help yourself to some food and water if you want.” The owl hoots gently at him and settles in for a snack, which gets Sam’s feathers up again. Sid sighs and carefully picks her up, depositing her on his shoulder. “Honestly,” he says.

 

She hoots softly, but Sid is positive that she’s not actually sorry. He unwraps the note first.

 

    _Dear Sid_

_After you leave Mama Boursin I’m find this by your chair and think you drop._

_Hope you don’t mind sending by owl! Commander Crispis is my favorite owl at post office_

_Please give him good treats! I will see you soon - maybe you cook for me )))_

 

Malkin’s full name is scrawled at the bottom of the note, weirdly formal, and Sid smiles. He opens the parcel and sure enough, it’s his new cookbook. Sid’s grin widens as he gets his wand a resizes his book. He casts a _scourgify_ on his shirt while he’s at it, aiming for the stains, but they’ve been sitting long enough now that he’s probably going to have to hit it with another spell later.

 

“Thank you,” Sid coughs. “Commander Crispis.” The older owl hoots and holds out a foot. “Ah, yeah. Sure. Give me a second to get some parchment.”

 

He finds some relatively quickly and scribbles down a note.

 

    _Hi Evgeni - thank you so much for finding my book! I was afraid I was going to have to_

_buy another one. It was very thoughtful of you to send it; I don’t mind you mailing me at_

_all._

_Commander Crispis has been very kind and well fed. Thank you_

_again! I hope to see you soon as well. No promises about cooking; I’m not very good yet._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Sid_

 

He attaches it quickly, before Sam can protest, and Commander Crispis is up and out the balcony before he can reconsider sending the note. Cooking anything new for the night is a wash, but he plops down on his couch with the remainder of his dinner and starts to flip through the cookbook; maybe he can pick something out for dinner tomorrow.

 

In the grand scheme of things, the package and note is a small thing, but Sid can’t stop the pleased feeling that spreads through his body whenever he thinks about it.

 

***

 

The Quidditch season starts in early October; Sid’s days fall into an endless routine of reviewing game footage, practice, and team meals. He goes back to his flat, empty except for Sam, who gives him her little comforting hoot-trill every time he comes home. Sid makes a point of interspersing team meals with his own culinary experiments, with varying degrees of success. He thinks he’s seeing an improvement over all, though, and that’s particularly satisfying.

 

Throughout it all, Evgeni keeps sending him little notes, and Sid keeps responding. He sees a lot more of Commander Crispis, though he usually sends his replies back with Sam to give the older owl a break. Sid smiles at every note, penning careful responses. Their exchanges are never very long, but they’re more than enough for Sid. It takes two more missives before he gets:

 

_Sid! We have such a good day at the shop today. Custom order for dress robes VERY FANCY. Couple wants matching fabrics though, VERY TACKY (((_

 

_-Geno_

 

It’s just a nickname, but it feels significant to see it scrawled there in Evgeni’s terrible handwriting, and Sid has to stop for a moment, overcome with the memory of meeting Evgeni under the Quidditch stands and the warmth of his breath against Sid’s ear as he’d whispered,[ “You call me Geno. Easier for tongue.”](http://66.media.tumblr.com/42c4d6d7af31b84d4e102eb49571de6f/tumblr_inline_oh2mbxbxEW1rk0oes_1280.jpg)

 

He shivers. Maybe it’s another acknowledgement of their history, or maybe it’s just that he got tired of writing “Evgeni” every time he sent another note. It still leaves him feeling warm and a little less guilty for every time Sid thinks of that year in a more than strictly-friends way.

 

It isn’t long before he realizes that he’s getting at least a note a night from Geno, and the few nights he doesn’t, Sid’s quick to send one himself. It gets easier and easier to just jot down quick notes to Geno - he gets better at just writing what he’s thinking, spends less time getting caught up in his own head. Sid worries that he’s a little boring, but Geno never seems to think so, and Sid grows more confident. He’s not as awkward on parchment as he can be in person, and he’s able to relax into their conversations.

 

Sid tells himself that it’s not a routine - because the last thing he needs to do is add another routine to his life - but deep down, he knows he’s lying to himself. Often his mind wanders when he’s writing, and he thinks about that lunch with Geno, about “It’s a date,” and whether or not it _was_ or if that just happened to be one of the many English idioms that Geno’s picked up. He knows his perception is probably biased, but he still gets his hopes up.  

 

They have an exhibition game against the Wasps on a Wednesday morning that starts at 9:00am and lasts until nearly 7:00pm - the whole team’s gassed afterwards, but Sid ends the game by snatching the Snitch about 3 inches from the side of the Wasps’ keeper, so he’s pretty pleased with himself. Flower’s fiancee is visiting her parents, so he ends up following Sid home, and it’s nice to have the noise of another person around for a little bit.

 

“This is a nice little place,” Flower says, kicking his shoes off and flopping onto the couch as soon as he steps out of the Floo. Sam trills at him from her perch, before taking off and doing a flyby past Flower’s head; he just barely ducks. “What are you making me for dinner?” Flower asks, seemingly unperturbed.

 

Sid makes a little chirping noise at her as she circles back around to land on her stand again, fluffing up her feathers. “Who said anything about making dinner?” Sid asks, even as he pulls out his cookbook and pours them each a beer. He’s slowly getting better at it - learning all the different measurements has been the hardest part. That and trying to figure out the difference between onions and scallions (he’s still not totally sure about that).

 

“But I’m hungry!” Flower peeks over the back of the couch, then narrows his eyes. “Wait. Is that a cookbook?”

 

“Uh. Why?” Sid asks, resisting the urge to banish the book.

 

“Mon chum are you _learning to cook_?”

 

“What if I am?”

 

“Have you discovered a secret desire to be a famous pub chef and didn’t tell us?”

 

“No.” Sid rolls his eyes, and floats Flower his beer.

 

“So then, who is it? Girl? Boy? Kneazle?”

 

“No!” Sid protests. “I just want to not, you know, starve. Or have to eat the same three things every night.” He does not think about candlelit lunches or promises of dates _at all_. Nope.

 

“That’s _boring_ , Creature.”

 

“It’s called being an adult,” Sid snipes back. “You should give it a shot some time. I bet Vero would like that.”

 

“How dare you,” Flower says, flopping back down. “She loves me for my boyish charm.”

 

“Someone has to, I suppose.” Still, Sid looks in his icebox and pulls out some chicken. There’s a recipe for a sauce he’s done a couple of times that he thinks he can whip up pretty quick and with rice - well, it’s better than boiled veggies and soggy pasta.

 

Flower turns on Wireless Public Access, and makes an excited noise. “They’re showing ‘All My Pensieves’!” He settles a little further into the couch, and Sid resigns himself to the continuing dramatic saga of the Marpling family. Sid keeps dividing his attention between the stovetop, the French doors, and the love dodecahedron on the WPA.

 

Flower gladly scarfs down his meal once Sid’s done cooking, completely devoid of any disparaging remarks - Sid can only assume that his cooking remained unaffected by his continued distraction. There’s really no reason why he can’t just go ahead and send Geno a note. He should do that. It feels _weird_ not to - like someone sprinkled itching powder on his meal. But Flower’s right there, and there’s no way he won’t notice Sid sending Sam out at this time of night.

 

It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. Plenty of people send notes to friends at night. Still, Sid kind of likes that this is a thing that he and Geno do - he likes having this all to himself and he’s not even sure where he’d begin explaining it to Flower.

 

So he stays in his spot on the couch after dinner, mostly still by sheer force of will. By 10:00,  they’re both dragging a little, food and the exhausting game catching up to them, and Sid definitely banishes the dishes to the sink to deal with in the morning.

 

“You staying?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” Flower mumbles. “Vero’s back tomorrow, but the cottage is just so _quiet_.”

 

And that, Sid can understand. “I’ll get you a blanket,” he says. Flower’s response is a snore.

 

Sam follows him into his bedroom, and Sid’s halfway through his night time routine before he thinks, _the hell with it_. He summons parchment and a quill and starts writing before he can talk himself out of it.

 

_Hi G - sorry for owling so late. I’d feel worse, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind and I think it’s because you always feed her so much. One of my teammates is over and I ~~didn’t want to~~ didn’t have time to write earlier. Long preseason game today, but we won! I got a lucky catch and beat Markstrom, even though Williams was a brick wall the whole game. Reminds me a lot of that match we played against Beauxbatons._

 

_I hope your day was good and Madam Henri stopped by to get her robes without giving you too much trouble._

 

He stops writing and swallows. For the first time since they started writing each other, the note feels like it’s not quite enough. It’s late and he’s tired, he finally decides. That’s probably the issue.

 

_~~Maybe we can go for lunch again soon? I mis I have a~~ _ _Talk to you soon - sweet dreams._

_-Sid_

 

The words feel right and before he can start to overthink, he gives the parchment to Sam, along with a treat. She’s pretty unimpressed, but at least doesn’t seem to mind the hour. He leaves the window cracked just enough for her to fly back in, and flops into his bed. There’s just a hint of chill in the air - just enough to make burrowing under his comforter sound like a really excellent plan.

 

He’s mostly asleep when he realizes that he didn’t give Sam Geno’s address, and for a moment he’s worried that she’ll get lost - but a few minutes later she zips back in through the open window, landing on his pillow and shoving her leg in his face.

 

The parchment is very small, and when he unrolls it, he realizes it’s spelled.

 

“Sweet dreams, Sid,” Geno’s voice washes over him, and Sid smiles, relaxes, and sleeps.

 

***

 

“Day off~” is the first thing Sid hears as he stumbles out of his bedroom.

 

“Good morning to you, too,” he mutters. Flower is far too awake and right now the only thing saving Sid from being a complete grouch is that he can smell freshly brewed coffee.

 

“Did you have plans for the day?” Flower asks him, perching on the edge of the kitchen countertop. Sid gives him a half-hearted glare, sipping his coffee. Flower’s ass remains planted on his counter.

 

“Not really, why?”

 

“Vero told me I had to get new robes before she came back. You wanna come with?”

 

Sid misses his mouth and hisses at the hot coffee soaking his t-shirt. He tries to recover with a totally smooth, “Oh, no. I’m good, thanks,” but it’s obvious Flower can smell weakness.

 

“You sure? Didn’t you say you needed new robes the other day?”

 

“That was _weeks_ ago. I already got some.” Flower’s eyes narrow as his smile widens and Sid thinks, _fuck_.

 

“Perfect! Then you already know where to go, and you can take me there.”

 

Sid tries to squirm out of it, but Flower refuses to budge, and if he’s not careful, Sid’s going to end up with a teammate who is _very_ invested in whatever he thinks Sid’s trying to hide. Which -  he isn’t trying to hide anything - there’s nothing _to_ hide except his enormous crush and that’s a level of chirping he has no desire to deal with.

 

Inevitably, he gives in, and Sid once again finds himself in front of Madame Malkin’s Robes. Flower raises an eyebrow at Sid’s choice.

 

“I would have thought you’d go some place a little more high-end.”

 

Sid shrugs. “I’ve had really good luck here. Besides, I’m not Tanger,” he mumbles. “Why aren’t you doing this with him, anyway?”

 

Flower laughs. “No one has as good of taste as Kris, and you were right there. You know how hard he can be to pin down.”

 

Sid sighs, pushing open the door. He expects to be greeted by Geno, but he’s with another customer, so all he gets is a distracted, “Welcome to Madame Malkin’s! Be with you one moment!” He must make some kind of face because Flower narrows his eyes, and Sid busies himself instead by making a beeline for the more formal men’s robes.

 

His distraction technique works, and Flower immediately starts pulling robes to try on in a huge variety of fabrics. Sid contemplates trying to rein him in, but he’s willing to let Flower go nuts - up until he starts trying to use Sid as a clotheshorse.

 

“What about this one?” Flower asks, holding up something in a vibrant gold.

 

“Um.” Sid pulls another set in the same color, but patterned with obnoxiously huge flowers. “Why not just go all the way?”

 

He means it as a joke, but Flower’s eyes light up. “Yes! Perfect, Sid.”

 

“And here I think you’re so boring, Sid.”

 

Geno’s voice is low and warm, and right behind him. Sid freezes. “They’re not mine,” he blurts out without turning around.

 

“They’re for me,” Flower pipes up, eyeing Sid speculatively.

 

“Shame,” Geno grins. “You could use some color.” He brushes past Sid to shake Flower’s hand. “Evgeni Malkin,” he offers.

 

“Marc-Andre Fleury,” Flower says. “Soooo, Sid recommended your shop.” He holds up an armful of vibrantly colored robes.

 

“Very good choices! Much more interesting than Sid’s choices.”

 

Flower looks positively gleeful at that information. “Let me guess, he went straight for the black?”

 

“Navy,” Geno says mournfully.

 

Flower raises an eyebrow at Sid, whose ears begin to burn. “Oh, _daring_ , Sid. You must really be looking to impress someone.”

 

“What. No. I. I just like blue,” he stammers. He can feel the flush start to creep down the back of his neck. The look in Flower’s eyes definitely spells trouble.

 

“Look good in blue. Maybe next time you let me put you in the powder blue. Or maybe a nice green, bring out your eyes,” Geno suggests.

 

“Not the green!” Sid protests quickly. His face is burning, he can feel it, and his brain keeps repeating Geno’s compliment.

 

“Hm.” Geno and Flower say it in unison and Sid gets the distinct impression that they’re going to gang up on him.

 

“Shouldn’t you be trying those, uh. Robes on?” Sid asks, desperately trying to deflect attention away from himself. He definitely isn’t fooling Flower, but his friend lets it go, sliding into the changing room Geno points to.

 

“Here I think maybe you tell friends; I’m not expect you bring by teammates.” He’s leaning in close enough that Sid can smell his cologne, but Sid still can’t read his expression.

 

He sucks in a breath. “It’s not - it’s not a problem, is it? Flower was very insistent,” Sid says. “And I wanted to bring him to someone I trusted.”

 

Geno smiles, a small private thing. “And here I think maybe you just want to see me again,” he teases gently, deflecting.

 

Sid’s first instinct is to sputter and deny it, but. Well, he _had_ wanted to see Geno again. He’s been wanting to see Geno again pretty much since their lunch together. He’s wanted to see Geno after every note they exchanged. He meets Geno’s eyes, hoping against hope that his blush has died down, and he hears Geno inhale sharply.

 

Sid shrugs a shoulder with a nonchalance he does not feel. “Well, I did promise you a meal.”

 

The look Geno gives him is considering. “So you did. You also promise me I tailor your robes.”

 

“No tailoring until _after_ the second date,” Sid says aiming for flirty and hoping against hope that he hasn’t completely misread the situation due to an overabundance of wishful thinking - that he isn’t about to get cursed with bat bogeys or need his bones regrown.

 

“ _Second_ date?” Geno asks, crossing his arms. But he doesn’t look mad, he just looks...intrigued, and Sid pushes on through his rising nervousness.

 

“Mama Boursin’s?” Sid offers, and maybe he really **had** completely misread the situation. He sees the tip of Geno’s tongue poke out from between his lips, and Sid blinks, removing his gaze from Geno’s mouth.

 

“I’m not think you notice,” Geno finally says. “Think maybe...sneaky date.”

 

“There were candles,” Sid murmurs. His heart has to be thumping loud enough for Geno to hear, he’s sure.  

 

“I’m think I feel you up first - if you maybe also want it to be date.”

 

Sid’s face is definitely scarlet. “I ah, I think the phrase is ‘feel out’,” he squeaks. He knows what Geno meant versus what he _said_ , but he’s definitely not adverse to the idea of being felt up again.

 

Geno shrugs, expression playful. “Maybe yes, maybe no.” His tongue is sticking out again, and Sidney has to lick suddenly dry lips.

 

Flower, of course, chooses that moment to burst out of the dressing room in a riot of color.

 

“How do I look?”

 

Sid does _not_ jump back from Geno, but he does freeze. And then squints at Flower. “Are you...are you wearing three different robes?”

 

“I think it’s gonna be the newest fashion.”

 

Beside him, Geno makes a deeply offended noise. “No.”

 

“But - “

 

Geno brandishes his wand threateningly. “ _Nyet_.” He tilts his head. “Keep the bronze one, though. That one looks good. Maybe try the pale green plaid, too.”

 

“You are no fun,” Flower mutters, but he turns to go back into the dressing room.

 

They’re both quiet for a long moment, and Sid can hear the faint sounds of Flower struggling out of his mess of robes.

 

“I don’t mind,” Geno says into the silence, and for a moment, Sid thinks that he misheard him. He glances up at Geno. “You ask before if I mind you bring teammates. They’re your friends, so no. Bring as many as you want.”

 

Sid’s chest feels tight. He clears his throat and smiles. “So uh. Dinner?”

 

***

 

When they leave Madame Malkin’s, Flower has three new, _incredibly gaudy_ robes, and Sid’s got a _for sure_ dinner date for Sunday and a kind of floaty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s definitely playing it cool - Flower keeps giving him suspicious looks, but he hasn’t actually _said_ anything yet.

 

Sid hasn’t actually come out to his teammates - not at Hogwarts, not on Team Canada, and so far not to the Magpies; he’s never dated anyone long enough to consider introducing a partner to his team, but neither has he been particularly subtle on the occasions when he picks up. As they stroll back to the Floo point, afternoon sun warm on Sid’s shoulders, he wonders if he ought to say something - just to Flower, maybe. He hesitates, though. It isn’t as though he’s concerned that Flower would have a negative reaction, but Sid’s just not sure if he’s ready to open that part of himself up to teasing, good-natured as it might be.

 

There’s also the matter of Geno - Sid knows he’s not always the most observant of people, but even he would have to be pretty dense to not make the connection between Sid coming out and their recent visit to Madame Malkin’s. Sid’s probably not been very subtle about his interest.

 

They Floo back to Sid’s flat and Flower makes some pathetic noises until Sid makes them a snack.

 

“So,” Flower says through a mouthful of cheese and crackers. “Evgeni Malkin, huh?”

 

Sid sighs. “Yeah.”

 

“How’d he turn up here? Didn’t he go missing a few years back?”

 

Sid’s pretty sure that by this point he could recite the newspaper clippings he’d found about Geno’s disappearance, but that would probably be weird. “Yep,” he says, taking a long sip of his fortified pumpkin juice. When he finishes, Flower’s still staring at him, both eyebrows reaching for his hairline. “I haven’t asked.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“That’s it? ‘Hm’?”

 

“What else is there? You don’t know, so…” Flower shrugs.

 

And, well. He makes a good point. Not for the first time, Sid wonders if Geno’s disappearance from Russia and Quidditch had something to do with his sexuality. They’d never discussed it during their time together, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that Geno isn’t entirely heterosexual. Sid hopes that one day Geno will confide in him why he up and vanished, but until then, Sid’s resolved not to push him. The last thing he wants to do is accidentally out anyone, regardless of whether or not there might be something more there. He can wait, and if it never happens, well. He’s still got Geno as a friend and that’s enough.

 

Sid kicks Flower out before dinner with a good-natured, “Go back to your fiancee. I’m tired of looking at you.” Flower laughs and smacks a sloppy kiss to Sid’s cheek before he can protest.

 

“Liar, you love my face.”

 

“I definitely don’t love that thing you keep trying to grow on your chin.”

 

“Better than that ‘mustache’ on your upper lip, mon chum,” Flower snipes back. “Besides,” he adds, tossing the Floo powder into the fireplace. “I don’t think it’s _my_ face you wanna see.” He grins, sharklike, and shouts his address, disappearing into the green flames. Sid sputters, but Flower’s gone before he can respond to that cryptic declaration.

 

Sid’s first instinct is to panic before he remembers that Flower doesn’t _know_ anything, that he likes to fish for information and wait for a reaction. He’s actually a lot like Sid’s mom that way. Sid exhales slowly and lets his heart rate settle back down before turning on the WPA and beginning to rummage around in his kitchen. Tonight, he’s going to try making chicken paprikash. Also maybe brownies.

 

***

 

The closed sign is up when he arrives at Madame Malkin’s on Sunday. Sid’s a little early, but he was excited and couldn’t help it. The door swings open for him as soon as he gets close, and Sid takes that as a good sign as he steps in. The shop is dimly lit by a few floating candles, but Geno’s nowhere in sight. Sid hears a rustling noise and he startles a little.

 

“Geno?”

 

“ _Mrrrrrrp_.” [The rack of robes nearest to Sid rustles again and parts to reveal an enormous fluffy grey tabby cat.](http://66.media.tumblr.com/f4ccca5ed4d7ff28306de3514eabf254/tumblr_inline_oh2mezMimj1rk0oes_1280.jpg) It flicks its tail and sits, staring at him the whole time, the picture of regality. Sid can’t help but get the impression that he’s being judged. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot before giving up and crouching down, reaching out to the cat. Its whiskers twitch delicately, and he’s positive that it’s about to let him pet it when he hears a muffled laugh.

 

Sid looks up to see Geno watching them both, an unreadable expression on his face, lips twitching. The cat ignores him completely to wind its way around Geno’s ankles and purr at a truly astonishing volume.

 

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” Sid says. Geno reaches a hand out, and Sid doesn’t need it, but he takes it anyway and allows Geno to tug him upright.

 

“Sid, meet Dixi - she mostly shop cat, but she let me feed her and pet her.” He bends a little, and Dixi stretches up to meet his hand, butting her head against his fingers.

 

“Hi Dixi.” Sid waggles his fingers, and Dixi gives him another look before flicking her tail at Sid and disappearing back into the racks of robes. “...Bye, Dixi.”

 

Geno shrugs a shoulder, but Sid doesn’t miss the hint of smile he’s trying to hide. “Cats.”

 

“Yeah, I’m familiar. My sister’s cat couldn’t be bothered unless I was feeding her or I’d been napping on the couch for too long.”

 

“Sounds cute,” Geno says.

 

“She’s a cute jerk,” Sid mutters, and Geno laughs, loud and delighted. Sid soaks in the sound. “Are you, uh, ready to go?” he asks and in response, Geno moves into Sid’s space, reaching past him to open the door. Sid exhales a little shakily and lets himself be ushered outside as Geno mutters a locking charm under his breath.

 

“So you have place in mind for dinner?” he asks, turning back to Sid. Sid fidgets a little, jamming his hands into his pockets. He’s dressed just shy of casual, nice slacks and a button down shirt - something that could pass for Muggle just about anywhere. Geno - well. He’s got bright blue wool pants on and a sweater that could be graciously called vibrant, but he’d followed Sid’s request for Muggle-acceptable clothes and Sid’s definitely seen worse.

 

Sid clears his throat. “Yeah. I was thinking maybe I could show you the Tube first?” He’s got a market in mind, but he doesn’t want to give away the surprise just yet. Geno’s eyes light up.

 

“Adventure?”

 

Sid grins a little. “Yeah, it can be. And I _did_ promise I’d show you around Muggle London.”

 

“Fun, Sid.” He plucks at the front of his sweater. “I steal all their fashion for new robe line.”

 

Sid wants to laugh, but he genuinely can’t tell if Geno is joking or not. It’s a short walk to the Leaky Cauldron from Madame Malkin’s, slipping through the wall and into the pub proper; they don’t linger in the Cauldron, instead going straight into Muggle London. Geno stops almost as soon as they leave, frozen on the sidewalk.

 

“You alright?” Sid asks, fingers brushing against Geno’s sweater sleeve.

 

“Mm? Yes. It’s just - “ he waves his hands around. “Very much.”

 

Sid forgets sometimes how overwhelming it can be going between wizarding and Muggle worlds if you don’t do it regularly. He smiles up at Geno. “Yeah, it can be a lot. C’mon, let me show you the train.”

 

For someone who doesn’t get out a lot, Sid’s impressed by how quickly Geno seems to adapt to the sheer volume of people and vehicles, not to mention the mess that’s the Tube. He’s still not completely used to it and his apartment is in Muggle London. He’s still pretty bad at it, if he’s being honest, but he’s leagues ahead of Flower or Tanger. Sid tries not to think about the one field trip he’d attempted with the two of them.

 

They manage to get into the station and onto a car without too much trouble. Geno seems pretty fascinated by the whole process, brown eyes wide and taking everything around him in, but he stays relatively quiet throughout the trip. Sid takes them up to Oxford Circus and they squirrel their way through an intense pedestrian experience before he veers them off into a little night market. He glances back at Geno, realizing a little belatedly that he’d taken Geno’s hand to make sure they didn’t get separated and it’s still firmly in his grip.

 

Geno meets his gaze, squeezes Sid’s hand once, then lets go. Sid sucks in a breath that has little to do with how quickly they’d been moving.

 

“I can never tell if Diagon Alley is busier than Oxford Circus, or if it just seems that way because it’s smaller,” Sid mumbles.

 

“You’re very good at Muggle London,” Geno says, looking impressed. “Expert at finding things.”

 

Sid flushes at the praise. “I’m really not,” he says, even though it kills him to admit it. “I have the worst sense of direction - I’ve just been here so many times that I have it memorized. But if they blocked a street or something, I’d be completely hopeless.” He shrugs. It’s something he’s come to accept about himself. “I actually learned a lot from my mom - her family’s Muggle and she used to bring me here when I was on break from Hogwarts.” He shifts a little, unsure if he’d shared too much. “So there are a couple of places here that are really good - we can go to whichever one you like, but I thought you might like this one.” He tugs Geno over to one of the larger stalls.

 

Geno sniffs the air and grins. “Russian, Sid?”

 

Sid smiles back, helpless to do anything else in the face of Geno’s excitement. “Yeah - I’m not sure how uh, authentic they are, but I thought maybe you could tell me.”

 

“Best, Sid. You come here often?” Geno asks, eyeballing the menu.

 

Sid shrugs. “I usually eat at the fish and chip stand,” he admits.

 

“You sure this okay? I like fish and chips, too.”

 

Sid is definitely a creature of habit, and there’s a tiny, selfish part of him that wants to latch onto Geno’s offer, to stick to what he knows. But even as it crosses his mind, it’s easy to remember the look of longing on Geno’s face when they’d eaten at Mama Boursin’s.

 

“I’m sure,” he says. “Maybe next time we can get fish and chips.” He’s not sure what to do with the look Geno sends him.

 

“I’m get you all the best Russian food,” Geno assures him, and something warm blossoms in Sid’s chest.

 

They end up sitting at a small cafe table, gorging themselves on borsch, piroshky, and some kind of cabbage roll, all of which Sid is going to probably regret come his next practice, but in the interim, he enjoys _almost_ every bite. Sid loves the piroshky, but can’t get behind the pickles they get on the side, no matter how much Geno raves about them.

 

“You want blini?” Geno asks him after they’ve cleared away their plates. Sid looks back up at the sweet crepes on the menu and licks his lips.

 

“I really shouldn’t,” he murmurs and Geno gives him a knowing look.

 

“Maybe I’m get and you help.”

 

He really shouldn’t, but… strawberries. “Yeah, all right,” Sid agrees. Geno stands and Sid tries to stop him. “Oh, I can get it -”

 

“No, no. I force you to eat, I buy.” When he sits back down with their order, Geno scoots his chair just a little closer to Sid’s. It’s every bit a delicious in person as it looked on the menu, and Sid finds himself scooting a little closer as well. He’ll just have a bite, just to try it.

 

Geno cuts into the blini with his fork first and takes an exaggerated bite. “So good, Sid. You try.”

 

Sidney is trying to consider the very delicious looking blini and not the way Geno’s lips wrap around his fork. It’s very distracting, so he takes the spare fork Geno brought back and digs in. The crepe is still warm, full of sweetened strawberries and some kind of honeyed sauce, and Sid makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat. Geno chokes on nothing and Sid realizes what he must sound like, but the dessert is _really_ good, and Sid’s having a hard time pretending that he doesn’t like the idea of Geno’s attention, of being the focus of his desire. He likes knowing that maybe he isn’t the only one who’s interested.

 

“You’re right, it is good.”

 

Geno swallows. “ _Da_. Russian food best.” They take turns eating the blini and exchanging glances and Geno shifts in his seat, moving just enough so that one long leg is pressed against Sid’s. Geno scoops up the last bite on his fork. “Last bite to say thank you,” he says.

 

“I really couldn’t,” Sid demurs, ducking his head and looking up through his eyelashes. Geno doesn’t try to feed Sid the blini, but he does press his fork into Sid’s hand, and Sid gives in. If he’s a little showy with the last bite of blini, well. Sid still dreams about Geno’s hands and lips, and he’s on a date and feeling brave. He catches Geno’s eyes as he licks a little bit of whipped cream off the fork. “Thank you, Geno.”

 

“No, thank you, Sid.” He leans in, close enough that their shoulders brush too, and it’s so tempting to turn and tuck himself into Geno’s warmth, but they’re in public, even if it _is_ Muggle London. He refrains, if barely.

 

It’s nearly 9 by the time they wander away from the night market, still full. There’s a strange sort of satisfaction that’s settled in Sid’s bones that has little to do with the good meal and everything to do with the man walking beside him. It’s easy to fall back on old habits with Geno, but this - they’d never really done anything like an actual date before, not that they’d both named. Whatever this is, it’s more than a just-buddies tumble that they can both brush off, and that - Sid feels like glowing.  

 

“We take the train back?” Geno asks, fingertips brushing against Sid’s.

 

“We could,” Sid says. He takes a deep breath and takes a risk. “Or we could go back to my place? I’m not too far away and you could use the Floo if you’d like.” Beside him, Geno’s steps falter and Sid swallows. “It doesn’t have to - I’m not trying to -” he stutters.

 

“Is close, yeah?” Geno asks.

 

“Yeah, just a few blocks.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Sid swallows, a tide of excitement and nervousness tangling in his chest as they walk together. Now and again, he points out shops that he frequents or tries to explain some of the odder Muggle contraptions they pass. True to his word, Geno seems particularly fascinated by the fashion.

 

“I’m always see jeans,” he says, peering curiously at a young woman walking past in a denim skirt and jacket. “I’m not realize how much more you do with jeans than just pants!” He sounds excited and Sid feels some of his own nervousness dissipate.

 

“I prefer them just as pants, personally.”

 

“Hm,” Geno says. “You wear as loose as your robes?”

 

Sid flushes a little. “It’s really hard to find ones that fit,” he mumbles, fumbling for the key to the front door of his building. Geno’s quiet behind him as Sid leads them up the stairs to his 3rd floor flat. Geno sticks close enough that Sid can hear his breath, crowding against him as they reach Sid’s door, and Sid can’t tell if it’s an accident, but he can’t stop himself from pressing back against Geno’s solid body, even if it’s just for a moment.

 

“Is all about tailoring for you, hmm?” Geno murmurs against his ear, and Sid feels the faintest brush of fingers against the curve of his ass.

 

Sid shivers, turns his head just enough to catch Geno’s eye. “Maybe,” he says, unlocking the door. Geno herds him over the threshold, and it’s such a familiar feeling that Sid aches with it. It’s instinctive to twist around, to wind his arms around Geno’s waist and tilt his head up - the motions still familiar after so many years.

 

“Sid,” Geno breathes, and Sid’s lips part - which is, of course the moment when Sam comes screeching over from her perch and tries to dive-bomb the both of them.

 

“Dammit, Sam! No!” Sid yelps, recoiling. She flits around their heads until Sid can get her to finally settle on his shoulder. “Oh, geez, G, I’m so sorry - she just gets really worked up when people come to visit.” He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not the completely _infatuated_ look on Geno’s face. “Um.”

 

“Hello Sam - know you remember me,” he says, stretching one hand out to her slowly. “What a beautiful girl,” Geno croons. “So good at protecting Sid, yes?”

 

“Careful, she can be a little mean sometimes,” he warns, but Sam’s feathers are already settling as she chirps interestedly at Geno’s fingers. She gives their tips a quick couple of gentle nips before hopping over to Geno’s hand, and Sid is floored. He has a hard time remembering the last time she was so immediately affectionate with another person.

 

She’s a small owl by nature, but in Geno’s hand she’s looks even smaller. And also _smug_ as he gently scratches her neck.

 

“Brat,” Sidney mutters, but he can’t help the fondness in his voice as he watches them together. His chest aches a little in a way that has nothing to do with the low thrum of arousal throughout his body.

 

“Not mean,” Geno says softly. “She know who gives her best treats. She just want to protect you, I think.” He continues petting her, but holds Sid’s gaze, “Maybe I’m go?” he asks tentatively and that’s the last thing that Sid wants.

 

“No!” He slams his mouth shut, embarrassed at just how desperate he sounds. “I mean, you just got here. I thought maybe we could have coffee? Or tea?”

 

Geno deposits Samantha gently back onto Sid’s shoulder, fingertips just brushing the skin of his neck, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide his shiver. Geno’s looking a little shaky as well, like maybe he’s struggling as much as Sid is right now.

 

“Good night, Sid. You best at date.” His smile is tentative. “Maybe next date I show you how to make proper Russian tea.”

 

That’s not Geno staying, but it is a promise of another date.

 

“I’d like that a lot, G.” Their first game is Tuesday, but - Sid takes a deep breath and asks before he can talk himself out of it. “You could come to the game on Tuesday? I’d like you there...if you want.”

 

Geno freezes, and for a moment, Sid feels like they’re back in the shop and he’s ruined everything. “I’m - no. Thank you.” He sighs, unwinds a little. “Maybe one day. You come by tomorrow if you have time?” Geno tugs a little at Sid’s shirt, and Sid’s not sure what to do with the look on Geno’s face. “I’m tailor your robes before big game. You look best, play best.”

 

Sid knows that he’s not the same person he was when he and Geno first met, and he knows the same must be true of Geno. That much is clear if only in regards to Quidditch - Sid struggles to imagine that the boy he’d met sneaking onto the Quidditch pitch would ever willingly give up the sport. It’s not fair to expect that Geno would want to pick up where they stopped - with hasty, frantic fumbling, always looking over their shoulders - Sid’s not sure he wants to. He’s afraid he wants a lot more.

 

He swallows and nods. “Yeah. Ok. Tomorrow.”

 

Geno smiles, small but genuine, and Floos home, and Sid can only hope that Geno wants more as well.

 

***

 

Sid can’t sleep that night, and he spends a ridiculous amount of time tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling until eventually he gives in and jerks off. It’s easy to think of Geno’s long limbs, the warmth of his body, and the careful touch of his fingers. The memory of Geno’s heated kisses is never far from the forefront of his brain these days - he wonders if Geno still kisses the same way, just a little too sloppy, a little too much tongue, but still so good. It takes embarrassingly little time for Sid to come as he imagines Geno’s mouth, head thrown back, lips biting down on his name.

 

He sleeps later than usual on Monday morning, and is almost late to team breakfast as a result. There’s no morning practice, but they do spend a good chunk of the day in what Coach refers to as team bonding time, with a healthy dose of reviewing the players and strategies of the Ballycastle Bats.

 

They’re done by 3:00, and Sid’s left debating on whether or not he should go straight to Madame Malkin’s Robes, or wait. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to go while there are other customers there - it’s embarrassing enough that he needs to get his robes tailored, much less for there to be witnesses. He’s much more tempted to go in right before the shop closes, but he doesn’t want Geno to feel cornered. Still, he didn’t tell Sid _when_ to stop by -

 

“What in Merlin’s beard is going on in your head, Sid?”

 

He jumps a little and realizes that Tanger and Flower have been staring at him. Flower’s eyes narrow. Tanger just looks bemused.

 

“Nothing,” Sid says, and yes, that sounds 100% convincing. Flower rolls his eyes.

 

“Thinking about what you’re going to wear tomorrow?” he asks slyly, and Sid blanches.

 

“What? _No_. That’s - no.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“I was thinking about getting a snack,” Sid insists.

 

“What, like a _Russian_ snack?” Flower snickers as Sid winces. He walked right into that one. Tanger looks suspiciously between the two of them, and Sid seriously considers apparating away to just about anywhere else.

 

“You’re both being weird,” he finally announces, grabbing Sid and Flower each by an arm. “We’re going to get a bite, and you’re going to tell me what is happening.”

 

“ _Nothing_ is happening,” Sid mutters.

 

“I think that’s the problem, _mon chum_ ,” Flower shoots back. The three of them end up grabbing one of the tables in the club’s common area, snagging fruit, jerky, and some muffins that had been left out after breakfast.

 

“So,” Tanger says, looking between them. “What is going on here?” He starts peeling his orange, but Sid knows better than to trust that studied indifference.

 

“Nothing,” he says again.

 

“Sid found Evgeni Malkin in a robe shop and is trying to woo him,” Flower says over him. Sid glares at him.

 

“ _Marc_.”

 

“What? It’s true. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

 

“No, no, go back to the part where you found _Evgeni Malkin_ ,” Tanger hisses. “How do you just _find_ someone like that - he’s not a stray kitten.”

 

“Um. He’s working at his aunt’s robe shop?” Sid offers. It’s a concept he’s gotten used to, but saying it outloud does seem kind of ridiculous.

 

“Wha- why? How?”

 

Sid tamps down on a prickle of irritation and shrugs. “He hasn’t said.”

 

“And you didn’t ask? Sid, he’s been missing for - “

 

“I know exactly how long he’s been missing, Kris,” Sid snaps. Tanger shuts his mouth, frowning at the outburst. “I haven’t asked because he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. I’m not a total dick.”

 

“Squid is just being protective,” Flower adds. “He doesn't want to scare off his new friend.”

 

Sid wants to protest that Geno isn't a new friend, that technically they've known each other for years, but he's already stuck his foot in his mouth enough, thank you.

 

“Well, then.” Tanger doesn't look remotely satisfied, but he just adds, “Maybe you should bring him around one day. I’d like to meet him.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Sid hedges. Flower and Tanger exchange glances like they can tell how full of shit Sid is, but they don’t press the issue, and frankly, that’s all he can ask for right now. They let him eat his muffin in peace, Tanger smoothly changing the topic to Flower’s impending wedding.

 

He intends to wait a little longer, but Sid shows up at Madame Malkin’s Robes a little after 5:00. He’d rather take the chance on contending with other customers than continue to pace around his apartment overthinking everything from their date to the color of his socks. Dixi greets him at the door again, nearly tripping him as he walks in.

 

“Hey there,” Sid says, bending down to offer his fingers. She ignores his hand, but does deign to wind her way around his ankles, leaving a trail of fur across his calves. “And here I was thinking I wouldn’t have to worry about cat hair for a while,” he sighs.

 

“I think she starting to like you.” Geno’s voice is warm, and Sid congratulates himself on not being startled.

 

He looks up, meeting Geno’s fond gaze. “How can you tell?”

 

“She didn’t run - is a good sign.”

 

“Well, then. As long as she approves, I guess that’s good.”

 

“Is a good sign,” Geno agrees. He makes a quick gesture with his wand and the sign on the door flips over to “Closed.”

 

Sid winces a little. “Oh, you don’t have - I can come back, I don’t want you to have to close early.”

 

Geno rolls his eyes. “Tell you before Sid, come by anytime. I’m make time.” And Sid doesn’t know what to say to that that isn’t something completely ridiculous like _Marry me_ , so he just stands there a little awkwardly and nods. Geno huffs a little laugh and tugs on Sid’s wrist. “Come on, Sid. Time to get you stylish.”

 

“I’m plenty stylish,” Sid says reflexively, but it’s pretty weak and they both know it.

 

“You have robes?” Geno asks. “Otherwise I’m pick some out for you, no trouble - “

 

“What, no! No! I have them, I promise!” He scurries to dig them out of his pocket, catches Geno’s grin, then rolls his eyes. “Ha ha. Yes, you’re very funny,” Sid mutters.

 

“I am,” Geno agrees.

 

Sid reverses the shrinking spell with a quick swish of his wand and is left with an armful of robes and he makes a little _well now what_ gesture. “How do you want me?”

 

Geno flushes faintly, but gestures to a raised platform, surrounded by mirrors. Sid steps up and tries not to stare at himself. It’s not impossible, but it does mean his only alternative is to stare at Geno instead.

 

“This is usually what you wear under formal robes?” Geno asks, walking around him. Sid tries not to fidget. He’s wearing slacks and a button down again, which is pretty standard.

 

“Pretty much,” he says.

 

Geno frowns absently. “Arms up,” he says, and Sid obeys. It’s weird to let another person dress him, but Sid figures that Geno knows what he’s doing. He’d rather Geno were _undressing_ him, but he pushes that thought to the back of his brain because he is a professional, dammit. The first set of robes settle over his shoulders and drape down. Geno frowns again. “See what I tell you about -” he swishes the fabric. “Is like _tent_. No good.”

 

“I know, I know,” Sid sighs. “I just. I don’t like things being too tight.”

 

“Don’t need to be tight to fit, Sid,” Geno says, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “You...shamed?” He struggles to find the right word. He flicks his wand, and a container full of pins floats over.

 

“I’m not ashamed,” Sid protests. “I just don’t - I don’t like people staring at me.”

 

“You play professional Quidditch,” Geno says incredulously.

 

“That’s different! They’re not watching because of me, they’re watching because of the game,” he protests.

 

Geno takes a few pins from the hovering dish, his smile a little sad. “Is hard to be watched for who you are, not what you do,” he says. “Hold very still, or I poke you in the ass.”

 

Sid freezes, partially because he would rather not be stabbed in the ass, partially because it’s hard not to read into Geno’s comment. Deftly, Geno pins the sides of his robes, first right, then moving over to the left.

 

“Arms make a ‘T’, please,” he demands absently, and Sid raises his arms up. Geno makes a few adjustments to his pins, then mutters a charm under his breath that Sid can’t make out. He flicks a pin and it stays stubbornly in the fabric.

 

“You’re really good,” Sid says, once there aren’t any incoming pins. He sucks in a quiet, shallow breath. “When did you learn how to be a tailor?” Geno doesn’t answer him. For a long moment, he doesn’t even look at him, just fidgets with the front of the robes, adding in a few more pins here and there.

 

“Is a lot of time since we last see each other,” Geno finally says as he moves around behind Sid. “Many things change in four years, Sid.” It’s the most directly they’ve spoken about their time together, and Sid can’t help the small stirring of hope in his chest. “My _tetya_ needed me, so I’m come here, learn new trade. I’m always good with charms and my hands; is a good fit.” He waggles his eyebrows, but the expression is anemic.

 

“I never thought you’d leave Quidditch,” Sid finally says, voice barely audible. Geno smoothes down the fabric starting at Sid’s shoulders, gathering it carefully as it tapers to his waist. Sid struggles not to shiver.  

 

“I never think I do, either.” Two pins get tucked into the fabric and Geno’s hand move up to the other shoulder, repeating the process. “For a long time, I’m think Quidditch all there is for me. I love it _so much_.” Two more pins create a pair of pleats. Geno steps back a little. “Try moving; how does it feel?”

 

Sid shifts a little, twists and bends. He watches Geno watch him, but can’t catch his eye. “Feels pretty good.”

 

“Good. Few more little things, I think.” Geno mutters his charm again, then plants his hands on Sid’s shoulders to position him correctly. “Don’t move, or - “

 

“You’ll poke me in the ass,” Sid recites. He can feel his face heating up, which is _stupid_ , but Geno gives him a little smile at that, and Sid decides he can live with the embarrassment.

 

Geno fiddles with the fabric at Sid’s shoulders, making tiny darts to bring the seams in just a little closer, then moves down to where Sid’s hands are nearly covered with cloth. “I love my country,” he says after Sid’s sure the conversation has been dropped. “But is hard to love something -” he stops, inserts a pin. “I love Russia, but they control... _everything_. They cheat for World Cup,” he finally says, looking up and catching Sid’s eyes. “They...drug players. Is wrong, and I’m scared. I’m scared they find out the things I’m do.” He looks away, tugs on the sleeve and puts in another pin.

 

“G - Geno, what things?” Sid asks. His heart feels like it’s pounding in his chest.

 

Geno whispers his charm again and moves to the other side of Sid. “The things I - _we_ do. They’re still illegal in Russia. I’m think it’s just that one year, Triwizard Tournament is special - I can have everything I want.” Sid holds his breath. This - it’s so close to Sid’s own worries that he wants to scream with it, wants to tell Geno that he _could_ have it all, that he still can. Instead he twists his hand a little, just enough that his fingers can brush against Geno’s. “ _Tetya_ Katya Floo, she say she needs help with the shop, that she’s too old to keep working alone.” Geno’s fingers tighten against Sid’s. “I’m think - is a sign. I wait until the team is traveling, have to give me my wand, and I come here.”

 

Sid exhales shakily. He’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Geno’s been missing for two years, and hiding here the whole time and no one knew? “Did they hurt you?” he asks. Of the hundreds of questions he has that one is the most immediate.

 

Geno shakes his head. “No - not. They give us the potions to make us faster, stronger. I’m never want to play Quidditch like that - but it didn’t hurt. I’m so scared and then no one finds me for two years...until you come into the shop.” Standing together like this, Geno actually has to look up to meet Sid’s eyes. His smile trembles just a little. “Never think I see you again, and here you are.”

 

“It was an accident, but I’m so glad it happened,” Sid admits. He bites his lip, all or nothing. “I never stopped missing you after that year.”

 

“I try to forget,” Geno says. “It never work, though.” His smile goes a little playful. “Hard to forget this,” he adds, placing his free hand on the curve of Sid’s ass. It’s clearly meant to dispel the tension, but Sid knows he’s not imagining the underlying question there, what they’ve been building on since that first impromptu date at Madam Boursin’s.

 

“I’d hope so,” Sid murmurs, face pinking.

 

Geno finishes pinning Sid’s other cuff and mutters his charm once more. “I’m not very good at dating men,” he says, tugging at the fabric. “You the first, but. I want to keep doing, if you want.”

 

“I - yes. That’s...please, I want that too,” Sid says, stumbling over his words.

 

Geno nods once. “Good. Turn for me.” Sid awkwardly shuffles in a circle. For the first time, he takes the time to really look at himself in the mirrors. The difference is remarkable.

 

“Isn’t it - it’s a little tight in the back,” he says.

 

“Try to move for me,” Geno demands. Sid twists on the platform, bends at the waist, raises his knees, stretches for the ceiling. He knows he looks ridiculous, but Geno seems to be seriously contemplating each movement. “No trouble?”

 

“No,” Sid mutters.

 

“Maybe you bend over again, just to check?” Geno smirks at him, tongue poking out. “Just jokes. Don’t touch, it looks perfect.”

 

Together, they manage to wriggle Sid out of his first set of robes and Geno sets them aside. Before he can protest, Geno’s got the second set over his shoulders. “Second set go faster,” he says. True to his word, now that Geno knows what he wants to do to the robes, it takes much less time to do the pinning.

 

Conversely, Sid finds it to be a much more trying experience. Geno’s hands are _everywhere_ it seems, skimming across his chest and down his back in a way that is pure distraction now that he knows he and Geno are on the same page. Together, they get Sid out of his second set of robes, Geno’s hands linger at his waist, fingers finding a sliver of skin and sending a familiar jolt of electricity up Sid’s spine. Geno may claim to be bad at dating, but he is definitely _very_ good at flirting.

 

“I show you the real magic now,” Geno says, gesturing at the two sets of robes, hanging side-by-side. He raises his wand and begins an incantation that Sid’s never heard. He can pick out bits of familiar spells, but they’re interspersed with Russian. Together, the robes rotate, and Geno flicks his wand and bites out a word and the extra bits of fabric neatly fall away. With another command, Sid watches the fine stitching unraveling and following the new paths that Geno created with his pins. Once the new seams are in place, Geno swishes and flicks in one smooth movement and the robes settle back down on their hangers. It’s unequivocally impressive.

 

He turns to Sid, smug smile in place. “Well?”

 

“Holy shit, G -” Sid grins. “That was incredible.”

 

“I’m best, I know.” His smile dims a little. “I like that I can do this, you know? It’s not Quidditch, but it’s mine.”

 

Sid’s not really sure that he completely understands, but he thinks he could eventually. “Yeah, Geno.” He clears his throat. “I could use some of that Russian tea now, if you want.”

 

Geno shrinks Sid’s robes back into a more compact form and hands them over. “ _Da_.”

 

***

 

Geno, as it turns out, lives above Madame Malkin’s Robes. There’s a creaky wooden staircase tucked away in the back of the storeroom that Geno leads him up. Sid’s not sure what he’s expecting of Geno’s apartment, but it’s small and cozy, just enough for one, and Sid can understand the appeal.

 

“Make yourself at home,” Geno says, heading for the kitchenette. “Proper Russian tea take time.” There’s a bay window with an overstuffed cushion that looks out onto Diagon Alley, and Sid settles down there. He’s got a good view of Geno puttering around the kitchen, but he’s still able to give Geno a little space.

 

“More than English tea?” Sid asks.

 

Geno snorts. “Bah, English tea,” he says, pulling down a strange, ornate silver pot. It almost looks like two tea pots stacked together and Sid’s never seen anything quite like it before. “Is fine, _I guess_ ,” he concedes.

 

“I think I prefer coffee,” Sid offers, just to see Geno’s reaction.

 

“Only because you haven’t had Russian tea,” he insists, muttering a quick incantation. Sid smells the faint scent of coal burning, and then Geno is filling up the large basin of the pot with water. He removes the lid off the top of the smaller teapot and adds several spoonfuls of tea leaves. “I make special blend for you,” Geno says with a little grin.

 

“Special blend?”

 

“I think maybe you don’t appreciate real Russian tea, so I make something a little lighter.”

 

“Hmph,” Sid says. He can hear the water hit a boil, and Geno fills the smaller pot with water from the larger, and sets it on top to steep. He extinguishes the coals with another quick spell.

 

“This is _samovar_ , is teapot and kettle together, very old.”

 

“It’s beautiful,” Sid says. He can see the ornate detailing all along the _samovar_. It looks old, well loved.

 

“Mama send over when she figure out where I go. It’s been in the family for a very long time. I couldn’t take anything with me when I leave - she think I like a little bit of home.”

 

Sid remembers what it was like to leave Canada - Taylor was too young to really get it, but for Sid it was a complete upheaval of everything he’d known to that point. He’d had Hogwarts to go to, a place to make new friends and to distract him, but for a while, he’d missed Nova Scotia so keenly that it was a physical thing. He knows it’s nothing like what Geno must have gone through, not to leave his homeland, but to have to _flee_. He’s suddenly really glad that he was able to take Geno to that Russian place, and he vows to make sure he takes Geno back there. Maybe he can find a Russian cookbook, too.

 

“I’m sorry you had to leave,” Sid says, getting up and joining Geno by the stove. He gently bumps Geno with his hip. “But I’m not sorry you’re here now.”

 

Geno looks down at him with a small smile, bumps him back. “I’m not sorry, too.” He takes the tiny teapot off the top of the _samovar_ and pours tea into two cups. It looks... _thick_ to Sid’s eyes. “Is...strong,” Geno says. “Now you add water until it’s how you like. Then maybe honey or jam for sweet.”

 

He adds a little bit of water from the kettle part, and Sid follows suit, though he errs on the side of a little weaker, just in case. The smell is still strong, but not unpleasant. He’s not quite brave enough to try it as is, so he adds in some of the honey as Geno adds some jam to his. Sid can’t help but wrinkle his nose at that.

 

“I’ll get you to try one day,” Geno says, catching his expression.

 

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

 

The look Geno gives him is - well. Sid’s glad he’s leaning against the counter. “I’m very convincing,” he says, sipping his tea.

 

Sid licks his lips. “I remember,” he says. Geno leans in enough that they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip. He looks a little incredulous.

 

“Really? After so many years?”

 

Sid’s not sure how to articulate how often Geno’s starred in his nighttime fantasies over the past few years, much less over the past month. It feels like maybe moving too fast, but - “That time under the Quidditch stands - I. I think about that a lot.”

 

“ _Which_ time?” Geno asks, turning into Sid. His voice is low, curling through Sid’s blood.

 

“All of them, but especially the first time.” He licks his lips again. He wants to get closer, wants to bask in Geno’s warmth, wants to relive that first kiss under the stands - the frantic thunder of his heart as Geno leaned down and pressed his lips to Sid’s. It had felt forbidden and perfect all at once, and Sid still thinks about the way Geno had whispered his name. [“You never stopped being important to me,” ](http://67.media.tumblr.com/b07bd869e5cf1a56679b04fdcf6a98e1/tumblr_inline_oh2marI0Jm1rk0oes_1280.jpg)Sid says, and he’s the one who leans up this time, who takes the chance and presses his lips to Geno’s.

 

Geno tastes like tea and jam, and it’s so close to what he remembers, but so much better. Geno’s lips part and he presses into the kiss, free hand coming to rest at the small of Sid’s back. Sid pulls back, face warm and flushed. He sets his tea cup on the counter, then gently takes Geno’s and sets it down as well.

 

It’s easy to fall back together, for Sid to frame Geno’s face with his hands and steal another kiss, then another, until Geno refuses to let him go. It’s easy and sweet until it isn’t; Geno’s teeth catch at Sid’s bottom lip, and his pulse spikes as Geno deepens the kiss. He wants this - has wanted this for so long - Sid’s fingers tighten in fine strands of Geno’s hair and he can feel Geno’s groan. He’s hard in his slacks, and he has to resist the urge to grind his cock against Geno’s hip.

 

“Sid,” Geno pants, withdrawing just enough that he can rest his forehead against Sid’s.

 

“I’m sorry, I got carried away,” Sid says. He shifts, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious, but Geno’s grip on his waist tightens.

 

“Don’t be sorry.” His fingers have snuck their way under Sid’s shirt somehow, and Sid shivers as Geno rubs slow circles on his skin. “I like...maybe too much.”

 

“No -” Sid protests. “There’s - it’s not too much. I just didn’t want to go too fast.” _I didn’t want to scare you_ , he thinks.

 

“I’m leave Russia for this chance,” Geno says, ducking his head. He sucks a careful kiss to the edge of Sid’s jaw, the same spot that used to make him melt into a useless puddle. The effect is much the same at twenty as it was at sixteen, and Sid has to clutch Geno a little closer. “I’m never think I get to be so lucky.”

 

Sid’s heart feels like it’s too big for his chest, full of too many emotions, all trying to escape at the same time. He doesn’t know the words for how he feels, can’t begin to articulate them all. He settles for, “Me either.”  

 

They ease apart slowly, but Sid doesn’t imagine the way Geno keeps touching him even as he picks up their cups. Sid nods at the unasked question, and Geno hands him his cup. “Hold up,” he says, demonstrating, and Sid keeps his cup raised next to Geno’s. Geno whispers a charm and blows a warm breath across their cups, and Sid can feel his tea heat back up to a perfect drinking temperature. Sid grins and presses his knee against Geno’s as he takes a sip.

 

Sid’s not sure how something can feel familiar and new at the same time, but standing in Geno’s tiny kitchen together drinking tea and talking about nothing feels like it could be every night. It _should_ feel like too much, too soon, but it doesn’t. It feels like they’re picking up where they left off, a little older, a little wiser and better equipped to handle their emotions and whatever the world throws at them.

 

It’s 7:30 before Sid realizes it, and he knows he needs to make a choice before it gets too much later. He doesn’t want to leave, but he’s got a routine before games, and this is maybe the first time he’s regretted that it extends to the night before a game, too.

 

Sid’s not totally sure how to broach the subject - of all the things they shared during their year together - and that was _a lot_ \- Sid doesn’t think that Geno was ever exposed to the full extent of his pregame and gameday routines. Ultimately, if this particular brand of Sid’s crazy is going to be a dealbreaker for Geno, he guesses it’s better to learn that now. Sid takes a deep breath.

 

“So, uh. I have a game tomorrow.”

 

Geno raises an eyebrow. “I know. You say before.”

 

“I know you said that you didn’t want to go, and that’s fine, I totally understand, that’s not...I’m not trying to pressure you. But I have certain things I do before games, like naps and snacks and uh, dinner the night before a game?” Geno blinks, but doesn’t look like he’s about to kick Sid out, so Sid barrels ahead. “I don’t want to leave, but I really need to have chicken and pasta, and I wouldn’t expect you to have that -”

 

“Sid, _Sid_ , slow please!” Geno stops him, and Sid grimaces. “You have special dinner before games?”

 

“Uh, yeah. Basically, yes.”

 

“You have at home?”

 

Sid shifts his weight awkwardly. “Yes.”

 

“Okay. I don’t have, but we could go to your place? Or I stay here.” Geno’s expression is totally open, like he genuinely doesn’t mind either way, and… Sid _really_ wants Geno to come home with him, wants to cook for him and maybe kiss him some more. Or more, really. But he’s also worried that if that happens, he’ll be too distracted to stick to his routines, and more than anything he wants to start his first season with the Magpies off on the right foot. He bites his lip and Geno smiles. “Go home, Sid. Have chicken and pasta, and get ready for game.”

 

“Are you sure? You’re -” he stops, swallows. “You’re not mad?”

 

Geno looks genuinely puzzled at that. “Why mad? You have Quidditch routine. I know how it is.” And that - Sid remembers that, remembers the very first pick up game they’d played together, team cobbled together from students from Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons all shoved together for the Triwizard Tournament. They’d only known each other for a few weeks, but Sid was already half in love with Geno, and when they went to go out onto the pitch and Geno had insisted that he be the last one out because _routine_ \- Sid had folded like a house of cards.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing into Geno’s space. Geno’s arms fold around him immediately.

 

“Of course Sid. Just because I don’t play now - I’m not forget.” He pulls away and holds out his fist. “I won’t be there, but is before the game, so it counts. You remember?”

 

Sid’s breath catches a little. “Of _course_ I remember.” He holds his fist out and muscle memory takes over as they perform the special handshake Geno had created just for them. They tap foreheads gently and Geno breaks the routine just enough to steal a quick kiss.

 

“For luck,” he murmurs, and Sid smiles.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Geno grins at him. “You better go now, or I’m keep you here all night, chicken and pasta or no.”

 

Sid bites his lip and tries to look stern, failing utterly. “Any other night, and I’d let you keep me here.”

 

Geno groans. “Go now, scoot.” He throws Floo powder onto the fireplace, and swats Sid on the ass as he steps in. “I listen tomorrow.”

 

“Bye, G,” Sid says before shouting his address. He can’t stop the huge smile on his face, and he doesn’t even try.

 

***

 

It’s second nature for Sid to get up on a gameday and set his right foot down first. Everything from there on out flows - same breakfast, same lunch - it doesn’t matter that he’s playing his first regular season game with the Montrose Magpies because he’s been doing this routine for years, because he’s in control of how his day goes until it’s time to play. There’s a certain sense of pride and satisfaction when he goes to put on one of his new robes, the fabric neatly pressed and smelling faintly of Geno’s shop. Sid breathes it in.

 

The game starts at 10:00, and Sid Floos to the club at 8:00. PB&J an hour and a half before the game starts. Warm ups, pep talk. He watches Flower get into his keeper-headspace, watches Tanger and his routines, familiar from their World Cup run - lets the noise and the bustle of the locker room wash over him. There are a lot of players new to him too, but between the practices and the exhibition games, the feeling of _team_ has solidified.

 

Sid feels settled, ready for the season to start; he mounts his broom and remembers his and Geno’s handshake, and then he’s flying out onto the pitch, the roar of the crowd and the wind in his ears.

 

***

 

They win the game, though it’s closer that Sid would have liked for their first match of the season. The Magpies managed 20 goals, but the Bats managed 32, and the swooping sense of relief that Sid felt when he spotted the Snitch hovering between two of the Bats’ Chasers buoyed him through stalling his broom so that he could plummet between them, snagging the Snitch on his way down. It was close, but it worked, and that’s what mattered.

 

He gives his soundbites to the reporters, signs some autographs to a group of fans who’ve bothered to hang around long enough for them to be done, then apparates home. It’s late enough that he doesn’t really want to nap before dinner, lest he be unable to sleep, so instead he sits down and writes out a long-overdue letter to his parents. Trina’s not above sending a Howler to her adult son if she thinks he’s being neglectful.

 

He tries to be thorough but concise, and finds himself at a lose as to what to write about Geno. It seems wrong to not mention him at all, but Sid struggles to describe what he and Geno have - are - without his feelings spilling all over the place. He settles on, _I’ve been lucky enough to renew an old acquaintance. You’ll be happy to know he’s making sure I dress nicer_.

 

It’s not even close to what he wants to write, but it’s a good start. One thing at a time.

 

He sends Sam to take the letter to the Owl Post - if it all goes well, it’ll be on carrier albatross by the morning and on its way to Canada. He’s not too concerned when she takes a little longer than normal, but he’s not expecting her to come back with a note for him.

 

“What did you do,” he mutters. Sam peeps at him, unconcerned, and settles on her perch. She doesn’t even look at her owl treats, and Sid has a sneaking suspicion that his bird has been moonlighting.

 

    _Dearest Sid -_

_I listen to your game today - first time in a long time I can do and be really happy. So proud of you for that catch! VERY HOT. I see you later if not too tired?_

 

_-G_

 

Sid feels his face warm. He spares a look at Sam, who looks about as pleased with herself as an owl can look.

 

“You little sneak,” he says with a smile. “I bet you just wanted more treats.” He scribbles a quite note in reply.

 

    _Come over whenever. Floo’s on_.

 

“Here’s your chance to let Geno stuff you silly again, you little brat.” Sam gives him an unimpressed look, but flies out the French doors anyway. Sid turns the WPA on and putters around his kitchen. He pulls out his cookbook, browsing between that and what’s in his fridge, and tries not to be antsy waiting for Sam to come back. Briefly, he worries about _too fast too soon_ , but he distracts himself with a likely looking recipe that involves chicken thighs, spaghetti squash, and a mushroom sauce that’s just flirting with too much heavy cream, but he thinks it’s within his ability.

 

He splits the squash and starts the oven, and he’s got his head stuck in the cabinet when he hears the noise of the fireplace. Sid narrowly misses whanging his head against his spice shelf, and when he turns around, Geno’s in his living room, trying not to laugh at him. Sam, the little traitor, is tucked into the collar of Geno’s sweater, and Sid probably shouldn’t be jealous of a bird.

 

“Hi Sid.” His voice is warm and Sid is helpless in the face of Geno’s smile.

 

“Hey G,” Sid says, and then he’s in the living room and wrapping his arms around Geno. Geno hugs him back, arms tugging him even closer. For a long moment, Sid lets himself relax, nose pressed against Geno’s neck.

 

“Good game today,” Geno says, and Sid can feel the vibrations of his voice.

 

“Mm, thanks.” He can’t resist the temptation to press his lips to the soft skin of Geno’s neck.

 

Geno shivers a little and tightens his arms before letting Sid go. “Something smells good.” He gives Sid a look. “You cooking for me?”

 

“I was cooking, yes,” Sid hedges.

 

Geno’s smile is pure smugness as he follows Sid back into the kitchen, and Sid’s always been unfairly attracted to that look. “What you make me?”

 

“...chicken with spaghetti squash in a mushroom sauce.”

 

“Mmm, Sid. Sounds so good.” He looks a little guilty. “Feel like I should be taking you out, not make you cook for me. Celebrate first game, that catch -” his eyes go dark.

 

“Well, I already started cooking. I really don’t mind,” Sid says.

 

“Maybe I make it up to you.”

 

Sid licks his lips. “Yeah? How?”

 

“I have a few ideas.” Geno crowds Sid up against the counter. His lips are a little chapped, but they feel perfect, and Sid arches into the kiss immediately, lips parted and hands anchored on Geno’s waist.

 

The chicken almost burns and the squash is a little underdone, but it doesn’t seem to bother Geno, and Sid can’t bring himself to care.

 

***

 

He and Geno see each other nearly everyday; they talk about Geno’s day, about his customers and the most recent owl Sid had gotten from Taylor, then they make dinner together and Geno makes tea afterwards. For maybe the first time in his life, Sid doesn’t intend to fall into a routine, doesn’t even realize that his time with Geno has become so regular that even his teammates know to expect Geno’s things in Sid’s living room, or for Sid to come to practice from Madame Malkin’s. It doesn’t feel like a routine. It feels like home.

 

In early December, they play the Cannons and they bring home a solid win, 270 to 140, and Sid’s ebullient afterwards. It feels good to go into the holiday season with a winning record, 14 - 5, which is what he tells the reporters who crowd around his stall. He made a smart play to catch the Snitch and end the game, his team scored a slew of goals against one of the best keepers in the league - it’s hard not to feel good.

 

He cools off in the training room and inhales lunch, knocking elbows and knees with Tanger and Flower, Brooksie and TK. The room is noisy and loud and everything he loves about playing a team sport. Two tables over, Army tosses an apple core at Scuds, and a cheerful scuffle breaks out. Sid manages to duck out before someone can drag him into it, laughing the whole time.

 

He knows that once he gets home he needs to do some chores, but it’s so much easier to flop down onto the couch and let the last of the game’s adrenaline drain out of him. He falls asleep in a matter of moments.

 

Sid’s dreaming - soft, warm arms and the low rumble of Geno’s voice. He blinks awake, eyes a little tacky and mouth a little dry. He turns his head towards the source of the noise. It takes him a moment to realize that what he’s hearing isn’t a dream, it’s Geno, whose head is floating in his fireplace, looking both fond and amused.

 

“Buh,” he says.

 

“Time to wake up, Sid,” Geno replies, grin stretching wider. “So cute, but is late for naps.”

 

“ _Hnggnghg_ ,” Sid replies, stretching from neck to toes. “G?”

 

“I call to congratulate you and you’re sleeping on couch.” Geno tsks lightly. “Can’t be good for your back, Sid.”

 

“Ugh, no. Not really.” He twists, trying to pop a little of his spine, and Geno makes a noise from the fireplace.

 

“I can leave?” he asks, unsure, and that gets Sid’s full attention.

 

“No, no! That’s - I’m awake, I promise.” He pauses, swallows trying to get some of the moisture back into his mouth. “Did you close up for the day already?”

 

“It’s after 5:00 - I’m all done,” Geno replies, cocking his head to the side.

 

“Are you coming over?” Sid asks. “I can make dinner.”

 

Geno sticks his tongue out playfully. “Chicken and pasta?”

 

Sid rolls his eyes. “Ha ha. No game tomorrow, so I think I can make something else.” He hopes. He’s pretty sure that grocery shopping wasn’t one of the chores he neglected to do today.

 

“I’ll be there soon,” Geno says, grinning, and Sid grins back.

 

“Good.”

 

True to his word, Geno steps back through the Floo ten minutes later. “Have to feed Dixi or _grr_ -” he says, fingers up in claws. He aims them Sid’s way, and Sid dodges.

 

“Hey, no -” he protests with a giggle. He doesn’t like the gleam in Geno’s eyes one bit and he dodges again as Geno springs forward, fingers still outstretched. “G -”

 

“Hold still, Sid!”

 

“Like hell!” Sid twists out of the way, still laughing, but Geno manages to back him into the corner of his kitchen, reach just long enough to prevent Sid’s escape again.

 

“ _Grr_ ,” Geno growls, fingers twitching against Sid’s sides. Sid collapses in a helpless fit of giggles, straight into Geno’s arms. In retrospect, that might have been what Geno was angling for the whole time. His fingers slip under Sid’s rucked up shirt and swiftly turn into a caress. “Hello, Sid,” he whispers against Sid’s ear. “Good game today.”

 

“Yeah?” He loves the way Geno listens to every game, the way he’s started to share compliments and critiques of the Magpie’s play. He really loves the way Geno’s voice goes syrupy smooth after Sid’s made a particularly good catch.

 

“Mmm, yes. Very clever.” Geno slips a hand back, palming Sid’s ass, and Sid presses back into it. He’s not above being a little shameless, especially since he’s certain Geno loves it. It’s easy to get a hand between them, to cup Geno’s growing erection and drink down his moan.

 

Not for the first time, dinner is a little delayed.

 

***

 

They’re relaxing on the couch together with the dinner dishes washing themselves in the sink and a piece of cheesecake Sid had squirreled away in the fridge when Geno shifts a little. He looks nervous, and that’s an expression that Sid hasn’t seen for a while.

 

“So, I’m think for a while now,” Geno starts. Sid presses his knee against Geno’s thigh. “Maybe I’m come to a game?”

 

Sid’s breath catches in his throat. “Are you sure?” he asks finally.

 

Geno’s voice is a little shaky, but he nods. “It’s time.”

 

“I can make that happen if you want,” Sid says. He _wants_ Geno to want that, wants to see him at a game if he can’t play with him in the air. But - he doesn’t need it. “You don’t have to if, “ he swallows. “- if it’s just to make me happy.”

 

Geno smiles, small but sure. “I know. But I want, too. I’m not play again, I think, but this - I ready to watch.” He takes Sid’s hand and squeezes. “Ready to support boyfriend at being best Quidditch player.”

 

Sid’s heart feels like it could burst out of his chest. “Yeah,okay.” He leans into Geno, cheesecake plate forgotten on the coffee table.

 

***

 

The Magpies play the Harpies the day after Taylor gets home for Christmas break, and he plans to take her and Geno, if he’s willing to effectively babysit. It's good to have Taylor back - he'd missed her, and she's full of stories about her new friends and her classes and a thousand other things he can barely keep track of. It's familiar and he'd missed her, and he blames that for not catching the way her eyes sharpen when she looks around the living room and kitchen.

 

“Whose are these?” she asks, holding up a pair of shoes that are 100% not Sid’s. He panics, and considers claiming them as his own, but there’s not universe in which Sid’s feet would fit in Geno’s shoes.

 

“Um,” he says instead.

 

He really doesn’t like the calculating look in her eyes. “Sid are you _dating_ someone?” she asks, finally. He can’t quite read the expression on her face, but it’s not like he’s going to deny it. It’s _family_ , his sister, and if he can’t tell her, how is he supposed to ever tell anyone else.

 

“Yeah, I am,” he says, and Taylor’s face lights up.

 

“For real?” She looks a little skeptical, and Sid would be offended, but well. He can see how it might seem a little out of character.

 

“For real. He’s uh, coming over for dinner, if that’s okay.”

 

“Are you two going to be gross?” Taylor asks.

 

“Uh...no?” He’s struggling to imagine making out with Geno with his baby sister present, but then again, he also suspects her threshold for what counts as “gross” might be a little lower than his. “We might kiss or hold hands, though,” he warns.

 

Taylor rolls her eyes. “I guess that’s fine.”

 

When Geno arrives after work, he brings a bottle of wine and a thick book on Quidditch. He looks nervous, which Sid thinks is equal parts sweet and ridiculous.

 

Taylor looks him up and down, not to be immediately swayed by the promise of a Quidditch book, though Sid keeps catching her eyeballing it.

 

“Mr. Malkin,” she says formally. Sid bites the inside of his cheek. Geno takes her hand, shakes it seriously.

 

“Ms. Crosby,” he says. “Is good to see you again.”

 

“You too.” She narrows her eyes, looks between Geno and Sid. “Call me Taylor,” she says finally.

 

He smiles. “Only if you call me Geno.”

 

“Alright, Geno.”  Taylor tries to catch a better look at the book in Geno’s hands. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

 

“Yes, definitely. I’m think maybe you like?” He holds the book out, and Taylor takes it eagerly.

 

Her fingers trace the cover, and Sid’s pretty sure he’s going to have to drag her out of it for dinner. “Oh - yes! Thank you!” She doesn’t spare them another look, just goes and curls up on the couch, and Sid exhales.

 

“You’re going to spoil her,” Sid murmurs.

 

Geno tugs him in for a hug, presses a kiss to the side of Sid’s head. “Is fine. Have to make a good impression on littlest Crosby.”

 

“Well you certainly managed that.”

 

Geno looks smug, and Sid steals another kiss. “ _Mm_.” Geno grabs Sid’s ass sneakily before announcing, “Chicken and pasta for dinner okay, Taylor?”

 

She looks up from her book long enough to raise an eyebrow. “Sid’s got a game tomorrow. _Obviously_.”

 

Geno laughs, and Sid rolls his eyes. His chest is tight, filled with _love_ and _family_ and _home_ as Geno moves around his kitchen, pulling out the pasta. Sid goes to get the chicken. Tomorrow, he’ll fly out onto the pitch with his team, and he’ll try to catch the Snitch. His sister and his boyfriend will be in the stands together, cheering him on. Maybe if he’s lucky, he can convince them both to go flying with him afterwards.

 

Taylor starts to read them a passage from her new book as Sid slides the chicken into the oven. Geno starts the water boiling, then opens the bottle of wine and pours them each a glass. They stand, arms and legs and hips bumping together gently as they listen to Taylor, and Sid’s not sure how he ended up this fortunate, but he knows this is exactly where he wants to be.

 

***

 

Sidney Crosby meets Evgeni Malkin for the first time on a warm October afternoon. They’ve both snuck away from the opening Triwizard Tournament ceremonies to the Quidditch pitch, and they barely share a word between them that isn’t about flying. He thinks it’s going to be the start of something beautiful.

 


End file.
